Those Who Remain
by Professor R.J Lupin1
Summary: Every Victor has a story, and they all deserve to be told. (7/200)
1. Deasia Marquis

**Name: Deasia Marquis**

**Age: 17**

**District: 11**

**Gender: female**

**Kills: 2**

…

**Five Things The Hunger Games Taught Deasia Marquis**

…

_**#1: Don't Make Assumptions**_

Deasia didn't know what she expected from the Hunger Games.

Firstly, she didn't think the Capitol was for real. Surely they would send them into the arena, wait for a few minutes, then come get them and send them back home. She would be back to the fields in no time. Back to her family. Back to Mina. All of this would blow over, and the Hunger Games would be forgotten.

Oh, how wrong she was.

When the pedestals clicked into place, one little girl, maybe twelve -years-old, jumped off immediately, terrified. But the moment she reached the ground, her body was blown to bits. Her gory remains were splattered everywhere, on the ground, the tributes near her, everything. Another girl, the girl from 8, Deasia thought, started wailing, sinking to her knees on the plate and sobbing. The boy from 7 started visibly shaking, and most of the tributes didn't move a muscle when the gong rang.

Deasia was not one of them. She quickly ran toward the enormous golden horn—the Cornucopia, the Capitol had called it—making sure to keep an eye on the other tributes. This was actually happening. They were actually going to make them kill each other.

The second death of the Games, the first caused by another tribute, was the thirteen-year-old boy from 3, Ridley. The girl from 5 panicked when she saw him running toward him and lobbed a knife, which swiftly became embedded in the barely-teenaged boy's head. Said girl from 5 was crumpled to the ground, sobbing as the boy from 1 loomed over her with a sword, seemingly torn over whether or not to kill her.

Apparently he decided to do it, for the girl from 5 lay dead not twenty seconds later.

There was only one word going through Deasia's head as she snatched up a backpack and started booking it across the meadow: _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—_

She only stopped running when cannons began to sound. She collapsed against a large pine tree, wheezing, fighting back tears. She was vaguely aware of seventeen cannons sounding. That left seven tributes left in the arena. Seven children still alive.

Deasia tried to forget those tributes she had seen cut down. But their faces kept flitting through her mind, the sound of their voices, the way they walked and talked and laughed and lived—

Twenty-one tributes died on the first day of the very first Hunger Games.

_**#2: Trust No One**_

On the morning of day two in the arena, Deasia stumbled across the boy from 6, Nissan. Nissan begged for mercy, screaming of sick siblings and starving grandmothers. Deasia didn't have the heart to kill him, not now, not yet. Not ever, she hoped. They became the first alliance in Hunger Games history.

Nissan's face was splattered with blood, decorated with cuts and bruises that told Deasia that he had barely made it out of the Cornucopia alive. Nonetheless, she shared her meager supplies with him, knowing that one of them had to win, and if it wasn't her she hoped it could be him. Well, or the other person still out there. Was it the boy from 3? No, she had seen his face in the sky last night. The girl from 8? No, she was dead as well.

"Who else is left?" she wondered aloud, shaking Nissan from a reverie.

"I don't know," the boy from 6 said. "I hope they're not hard to kill." He sighed. "I hope they die of natural causes. I don't want that on my conscience."

"Neither do I," Deasia agreed. She glanced up at the sky. "Why is it getting dark? Wasn't it dawn an hour ago?"

Nissan looked up too. He shook his head. "This whole place is artificial. Surely they can change the time of day at will."

Deasia shrugged and shivered. A biting wind had reared up just a few minutes after she and Nissan agreed to be allies. Were they really that hungry for more bloodshed? Was yesterday not enough? Deasia doubted she would ever know.

"They must be in a hurry to end it," Deasia decided. "Well, in that case, I think I'll take a nap. I should be rested up for the finale, anyway, and, well, I guess I want to delay the inevitable." She looked at Nissan. "Keep watch?"

He nodded firmly. Deasia pulled out the sleeping bag from her backpack and snuggled down in it.

She woke a few minutes later to Nissan holding a knife a few inches above her head, terror and determination conflicting his face.

_**#3: Kill or Be Killed**_

Deasia reared back as Nissan brought the knife down. It would have landed in her head if she had not moved. Instead, the blade became stuck in the earth, pulling the sleeping bag down. Nissan desperately yanked, trying to remove the knife from the dirt, but it was stuck fast.

His former ally gave him a swift kick to the back, sending him flying headfirst into a tree. Nissan's head slammed into the bark, leaving him dazed and open for the kill.

Deasia's breathing turned shallow, terrified at the prospect of what she was about to do. She stood over Nissan, looking to the sky with remorse in her eyes. "I don't know if you're watching, but if Nissan has sick siblings or a starving grandmother, I'd like to say I'm sorry. Sorry for what I'm about to do." And with that, she wrenched the knife out of the ground, looking at her former ally's face one last time. She averted her eyes and stabbed the knife into Nissan's chest.

The cannon boomed, and she walked away without looking back. She didn't know what she would see, but she definitely didn't want to know.

_**#4: Fight Like Your Life Depends on It (Because it Does)**_

The Games crawled on for another fourteen hours. Deasia finally got her nap, which she took in a tree, too afraid to stay on the ground, and when she awoke it still had not got any lighter. It seemed the newly-appointed Gamemakers were content to make their two final tributes stumble around the dark like drunk idiots.

She had decided to go back to the Cornucopia. If they were going to end this, it might as well be where it started.

The blood of the seventeen tributes who died there still remained, splattered upon the dirt, grass, supplies, and the once-spotless golden Cornucopia. Red was everywhere. Deasia decided that she never, ever wanted to see that color again.

It was unfortunate, of course, that the only other remaining tribute was the boy from 5, Volt, clad in his tomato red jacket, the look of madness on his face.

Deasia had seen him enter the meadow and immediately clambered on top of the Cornucopia, ignoring the stains of red against the background of gold. Her only weapon was the knife she had used to kill Nissan, which she knew would not bode well against the impressive spear Volt wielded.

Fortunately, Volt was very inexperienced with his weapon of choice. He hefted it awkwardly, shouting for Deasia to come down, so he could kill her, so he could go home. Deasia knew that feeling. She wanted to go home desperately, but she doubted she deserved it anymore. After all, she had killed Nissan. It was self-defense, she told herself. I would have never killed him if he hadn't tried to strike first.

Needless to say, those words did nothing to ease her guilt.

She was only shaken from her reverie when Volt threw the spear up at her. It slid across the Cornucopia, skidding to a stop halfway down the metal, leaving Volt weaponless and without the high ground.

Still, he had pick of the supplies that remained in the horn of plenty. He threw another two spears at Deasia before one finally hit her: it was certainly not fatal, at least not yet, but damn did it hurt for her to pull that spear from her shoulder. Luckily it was not her throwing arm. Her left arm may have been out of commission, but her right was feeling fine.

Volt was careless, driven mad by the horrors he had witnessed at this very location, just twenty-seven hours before. He lobbed spears like a madman, and Deasia knew he would run out soon. Then, she would make her move. With her one knife in hand, she would end Volt's life.

Deasia gagged at the thought. She nearly vomited up what little she had had to eat that day. She swallowed thickly, leaning over the edge of the Cornucopia, waiting.

Finally, Volt ran out of spears. He put his head in his hands, pulling at his hair, muttering nonsensically. He was shaking and twitching, clearly insane, and for a moment Deasia felt as if she was just putting him out of his misery. Volt would never be the same if he left this arena. But then again, Deasia wouldn't either.

She threw the knife, and her aim rang true. Volt slumped over a box of blankets, blood pooling around his head. One last cannon rang through the arena.

Deasia collapsed against the Cornucopia, sobbing, unable to stop herself from vomiting. She was going home. Mina would be so happy. She could practically hear her sisters jumping for joy and yelling in excitement. She hoped they weren't being too loud.

Trumpets blared, making Deasia finally sit up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you, the Victor of the first annual Hunger Games, Deasia Marquis of District 11!" It was the voice of Maximus Morrison, the newly-appointed Master of Ceremonies.

She was going home. Home. At last.

_**#5: It Does No Good To Dwell on The Past, But That Does Not Give You The Right to Forget It**_

For the rest of her life, Deasia was the shoulder to lean on. She was the first Victor, meaning everyone always looked to her for guidance and comfort. When she wasn't in the Capitol, endorsing murder with a cute name, she was shut up in her home, trying to forget everything she saw. Only around the time of the eleventh Games, when she and Mina had married and adopted two children, did she finally realize something: she could never forget her past. But for some reason, she didn't want to. She knew that if she forgot those other tributes in those first Games, eventually there would be no one left to remember them. And so, on the eve of every Reaping as long as she lived, she lit twenty-three candles on her porch, one for each tribute who died in her Games. When District 11 earned another Victor, they did this too. Then other Victors from other districts started doing it.

Deasia put herself to the task of committing everything about the tributes in her Games to her memory. She never wanted to forget them.

She had notebooks full of little things about the tributes. She had a whole book dedicated to Nissan, a boy she had known for barely a day, and even more to Volt. She wrote down everything she thought of, no matter where she was, who she was with, or what she was doing. It became a bit of an obsession, an obsession which could never be fulfilled since there was always more to know about a tribute. What was the girl from 8's favorite color? Did the boy from 12 like cats or dogs better? Why was a spear Volt's weapon of choice?

She would never know.

Home no longer felt like home. The fields of District 11 reminded her too much of the meadow the Cornucopia had rested in, the smell of flowers too similar to those in the arena, the red brick bakery too much the color of blood, the gold dress with the blood-red sash she wore in District 5 on the Victory Tour too close to the Cornucopia where Volt made his final stand.

She saw blood wherever she went. Every bit of red she saw, no matter how light or dark, morphed to look like those stains upon the golden horn.

Deasia never wanted to see the color red again, but it haunted her wherever she went.

…

**Current Standings**

**District 1: N/A**

**District 2: N/A**

**District 3: N/A**

**District 4: N/A**

**District 5: N/A**

**District 6: N/A**

**District 7: N/A**

**District 8: N/A**

**District 9: N/A**

**District 10: N/A**

**District 11: Deasia Marquis (1st Games)**

**District 12: N/A**

**A/N: There's the first chapter of Those Who Remain. I have first seven Games pre-written, so the next one should be out relatively soon. **

**Is Deasia interesting, or is she stupid or cliché? She's probably stupid and cliché. Anywho, hopefully the chapters will get longer as I get further into the Games. I'm definitely looking forward to writing a couple of up-and-coming games, one of which is unfortunately thirty-five games away. **

**Well, I imagine this first chapter probably isn't all that enticing, but I hope you'll stick around for the other Victors. Some of them are going to be pretty fun. **

**One other thing: I'm not sure how far I'm going with this story. My current goal is two-hundred Games, but I might end before that if I start running out of ideas. I do have an idea to remedy that, but I don't know if that will happen either…**

**Anyway, tell me what you think. Or don't. It's up to you.**

**-Amanda**


	2. Aces Chaney

**Name: Aces Chaney**

**Age: 15**

**District: 5**

**Gender: Male**

**Kills: 3**

…

When the plate clicked into place, I don't know what I expected. An icy tundra, maybe. A blazing hot desert. A volcanic wasteland.

Well, none of those things were what I got, since I was looking at a dreary, open plain. Like, seriously. There was nothing for miles. Hardly an arena suited for someone like myself. I needed grandeur, excitement! Not a boring, open plain with _literally nothing to see or do_.

My eyes skimmed over the tributes. A monstrous boy from 7. A tiny twelve-year-old from 11. A vain, conceited girl from 1. Nobody was true competition. I could take these tributes—these children—any day of the week. Even the boy from 7. I'd fought tougher, meaner, stronger, older people back in 5, and I was ready to kill to win.

Like my district partner, Solanna. Of course, she went by Sol. We knew each as kids. Our parents hated each other, so by default, I hated Sol, and she hated me. It was what we were taught was right—we hated who we were supposed to hate, fought with who we were supposed to fight with. Sol had made her intentions quite clear—she intended to kill me. Of course, she couldn't kill me if I killed her first, and when our showdown did inevitably happen, it would be me who came out on top. Undoubtedly. I was always stronger than she was. Whenever she challenged my power, she lost.

We were parts of rival gangs. My gang was, and always will be, the better one. Sol's couldn't compete with mine. And once I won the Hunger Games, no one would ever challenge us again. I would be the leader of the gang, of course—no one else had won a death match against twenty-three other kids, had they?

The gong rang, and I sprang off my plate, charging across the grass toward the shimmering golden horn. No one threw themselves to the mines this time, which is unfortunate. One less person to cut down. One less hour I have to spend in this godforsaken plain.

There were many reasons these Games wouldn't be like the year before. No one stood on their plates after the gong rang, unsure of what to do and reeling after that stupid girl blew herself up. Nobody stood there, looking around at a complete standstill.

But there was one other reason these Games were not like the rest: they had me in them.

…

I had been walking for a while. The cannons fired nearly two hours ago. Twelve dead. Hardly as many as there had been the year before. Still, I had survived. Many hadn't. Like the little girl from 11, for instance. The pair from 9. The girl from 7. The boy from 6. The vain girl from 1. And of course the small boy from 2. I personally ended his life.

It felt great to be able to say that I had been one of those on the kill-list board. And besides, it's not like anyone was going to miss that conceited blonde idiot. Everyone she knew had to know that frivolous girl wasn't going to win. Especially since I was in the arena with her. I was the clear-cut Victor, of course. The only one anyone would place bets on. The strongest, with a training score of 9, the highest ever achieved in the history of the Games.

Sol only got a 7. Joke's on her. She had to know that she would never win. Even if we both hadn't been Reaped, I would have known she would die. She didn't have the needed skills to be a Victor. Hardly to get out of the bloodbath.

I was thinking that I would aim for the highest kill count achieved in the Games until, say, the thirtieth? Hopefully longer than that. The girl from 12 had the highest kill count last year, and she only had, like, one and a half kills. I could beat that any day. The only problem is that I had to hold the record for my entire lifetime. There was no possible way I could be 'the Victor who had the record for a couple of years'. I had to be _the_ record holder.

And I would be. Why wouldn't I? I was way stronger than anyone else in this arena, and could easily kill any of them. If only I could find them…

I sighed as a light drizzle started to fall from the sky. Pulling my hood up over my head, I continued through the rain, unfortunately seeing no shelter in sight. I couldn't see any tributes for miles. In this flat expanse of land, I should have been able to see all the others! I gripped my sword tighter as my feet came down harder in the muddy puddles the rain turned my dirt trail in to.

The dirty water splashed upward and soaked through my boots and pant legs, right to my socks. I growled in anger, freezing in place. I locked my arms at my sides, gritting my teeth and shaking with rage. Fucking Gamemakers. Always trying to make my life harder.

Eventually I started moving again, treading lightly through the mud. I shook my head, causing my hood to slide off. I froze again, feeling the rain washing over my now-bare head.

I pulled my hood back up and kept going. Eventually I came upon a small, seemingly-quite deep hole. I knelt down in front of it, slowly lowering my sword into black until it hit solid ground. It wasn't very deep. It would be a good place to get out of the rain, so I got to my feet and put my sword on my belt.

And then something slammed into the back of my head. Everything went black as I toppled headfirst into the darkness.

…

When I woke up, the first thing that registered was the pain. Then came the confusion. Where was I? It was dark, but there was a shaft of light pretty far above me. My left arm was bent at an odd angle, and it pulsated with pain. I looked blearily into the darkness, wracking through my mind, trying to pull up something.

But I couldn't. There was nothing. I couldn't… I couldn't remember _anything_.

My name? Could've been Jimothy. What I was doing in a cave with a broken arm? No idea. Please don't ask.

Everything was sliding in and out of focus. My ears were ringing. And there was the blaring problem of having a completely empty head. As I tried to bring _something, anything_ back from the abyss, all I got was a splitting headache that only made the pounding and the pain and the screaming of my limbs worse.

Finally, I couldn't keep my eyes open anymore and dropped into the darkness, wondering if I'd ever wake again.

…

I did indeed wake up again. It was to the sound of… an explosion? A loud boom? A gunshot? A second followed quickly, and I forced myself to sit up. Where were those noises coming from? Still, where was I? Why were there noises? What is going on? Who am I? It's scary, collapsed down here at the bottom of this cave with an empty head and no identity to call my own.

With some effort, I managed to sit up and get to my feet. Everything was kind of fuzzy at the edges, and my ears were still ringing a little, but my head was the clearest it had been since… well, ever. At least in my memory.

I reached up and touched the side of my head. My hand came away wet with blood. I started, quickly taking off my jacket—wait, I had a backpack? And a _sword_?—which for some reason had a big five on it, ripping off one of the sleeves and wrapping it around my head. Don't ask me how I knew to do that. It just felt like the right thing to do. Practically muscle memory.

Slowly, I started to walk around my little cave. It wasn't nearly as deep as it had seemed when I first woke up, laying on my back and only half conscious. I decided to climb out, and when I reached the top, I was faced with an expansive, empty plain. Not far from me, I could see someone standing with her—I thought it was girl at least, they had long red hair—to me.

"Hey!" I yelled, stumbling over my feet a little in my haste to reach the girl. "Hey! You!"

She turned around, a look of surprise playing on her face until recognition distorted her features. And then there was anger. She charged toward me with fast, sure steps, pulling something—a _knife?_—out of her pocket. She launched onto me, knocking me backward and pinning me to the ground.

"What the hell?" I exclaimed, trying to squirm out from underneath her. "Who—who are you?"

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Chaney," she sneered, holding the knife way too close to my feet for comfort.

"Chaney?" I repeated. "Is that… is that me?"

"Of course it's you," she said impatiently. "What's your deal? You're hardly putting up a fight, and—Jesus, what happened to your arm?"

"Well… funny story…" I mumbled. "I fell into this hole… or maybe I was pushed… but if I'm supposed to know who you are, I'm sorry. I don't. I can't… can't remember anything…" I trailed off, the realization of the fact that I had a life somewhere that I can't remember weighing down upon my shoulders.

"Ha-ha, very funny," the girl replied, but there was real terror in her eyes. "Come on, Chaney. It's not going to be fun to kill if you if you're pretending to have amnesia."

"I'm not pretending!" I cried, trying to ignore the fact that she wanted to kill me. Wasn't murder illegal?

"You spit on me," the girl whispered disgustedly.

"I don't know who you are," I said breathlessly. "So, um, I'd appreciate it if you could… you know, get off me?"

"I'm good," she said firmly. "I don't believe you, Chaney. This is just like you'd do—I'm sure you just made this up. You probably didn't even fall into a cave." Something in her eyes told me differently. She knew something I didn't. Although, it's not exactly impossible, seeing as I didn't remember anything.

"Can you… can you please let me go?"

She gaped at me. "The real Chaney would never say please." She leaned down, making eye contact with me and forcing me to lean away from her putrid breath. "You must… you must really not… oh my god."

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," I said. "Now, please let me go."

"Oh… right," She stands up, still looking at me oddly. I stood as well, my hand resting on the hilt of the sword on my belt. "I guess I should introduce myself, then. I'm Sol."

I had hoped hearing her name would ring bells, since she obviously knew who I was—or, who 'Chaney' was. But there was nothing. Her face was pretty, but it wasn't familiar. Neither was her name. "So my name is Chaney?"

"…no," she said eventually. "Your name is Aces."

I was silent for a moment. I wanted a flood of memories to come racing back. I wanted to suddenly remember everything I had forgotten. Maybe who Sol was. Maybe why I was here. Maybe why Sol wanted to kill me. Anything. I would have settled for anything. Any answers meant that there was still something there, just away but still actually _there_.

But… nothing.

"So, new question," I said. "Where are we?"

Sol was silent for so long that I didn't know if she was going to answer. "We're in the Hunger Games." She paused for a moment, probably waiting for me to realize what that was.

"And…? Is that… like, an outlasting game?" I asked quizzically. "Whoever gives up and eats first loses…?" No matter how much I wished Sol would say that was it, I knew I was off. She was too jumpy for that to be true. But, she did look kind of thin.

"No," she said quietly. "It's a fight to the death."

I jumped backward. "W-what?"

"It's penance for the districts' crimes," Sol explained. "Two years ago, the districts of Panem rebelled against the Capitol. It was anarchy." She looked up. "We were both there. There were rebels and loyalists running rampant through the streets—"

"Were we rebels?" I asked suddenly. "Or we were loyalists?"

"That's not something you announce on live television, Chaney," Sol said vehemently.

"Live television?!" I exclaimed, looking around wildly as if I expected to see a camera crew behind me filming our conversation.

"You can't see the cameras, idiot," Sol said. "but they're there. Thousands of people are watching us, right now."

"Wow." I couldn't think of anything else to say. I didn't know if I _wanted _to say anything with this revelation. "So… does that mean I have family watching this?"

"Technically," Sol answered with a shrug. "Your parents probably aren't watching. They don't care about you. But your sisters… they're probably terrified."

"You sure seem to know a lot about my life," I said, impressed. "We were, like, friends, or something?"

Sol stared into blankly into the distance as she said, "…yes." She nodded quickly. "Yes, we knew each other. We were… we were friends."

"So this is hard for us," I said, my voice hollow. I felt like I was talking about someone else's life. I suppose that I almost was. "being in a death match together."

"It is," Sol agreed. "We should move. Maybe we'll come across another tribute. One step closer to home."

"Where is home?" I asked as Sol started to walk toward a large, golden dot on the horizon.

"District 5," she said immediately. "Power. Also known as literal hell. I mean, I've heard District 6 is pretty bad, but 5 is absolute shit."

"So… how many of these, um, 'tributes' are left?" I asked in an effort to change the subject.

"Nine, including us. I don't know who the other seven are, since two of them died earlier today. We'll know tonight, though."

We walked in silence for a long time. I was trying to piece together a story in my head. Rebellion happened two years ago which led to a war between the districts of Panem and the Capitol of Panem, and I assumed the Capitol won. As penance, the Capitol started to Hunger Games, where I guess all the districts provide 'tributes' for a fight to the death. Sol and I went into the Games together, and were friends outside of the Games, in District 5.

Okay. I thought I got it all now.

We walked aimlessly for hours until it started to get dark. Sol suggested we make camp for the night, and I wasn't about to disagree. My legs were shaking and I felt kind of lightheaded, but I was exhausted. I flopped down on the grass beside Sol. We pressed out backs against each other, looking at the sky.

"Is this the real sky?" I wondered aloud.

"I don't think so," Sol replied. "I think it's artificial. Meant to keep us from escaping." We fell silent as a song echoed through the arena.

"What's that?" I asked.

"The anthem of Panem," Sol explained, and I couldn't help but notice the note of venom in her voice. "And those are today's fallen."

A girl with cold, unseeing eyes and a blank face appeared in the sky. The number 3 accompanied her dead-eyed photo. The next picture was an angry looking boy with jet black hair with the number 9.

"So… they're dead?" I asked softly, disbelieving.

"Yes," Sol said, her voice equally quiet. "You know that you kept bragging about how you couldn't wait to wrack up kills before the Games began?"

I was silent. I didn't know what to do with this information. I didn't want to kill. Not anymore, at least. But apparently, it was unavoidable. But the old me, the old Aces Chaney, _wanted_ to end someone's life. Wanted to be the reason a child no longer walked the Earth. It wasn't knowledge I was happy to have, but it was an inevitable revelation, right?

"There's something else you should know," Sol whispered, pulling her knees to her chest.

"What…?" I asked, even though I was sure I didn't want to know.

"You killed someone in the bloodbath," Sol said after a second. "She was the girl from 1. You kept telling everyone how much you hated her. Aces Chaney always got what he wanted, and what he wanted was to kill that girl. Glow, I think her name was. I didn't like her, mind you; but I didn't want to go out of my way to kill her. But you… you were a different story."

I was horrified. I was completely frozen with shock. Earlier, I had wanted a flood of memories. But now, I was content to have the old Aces Chaney stay buried.

…

The next morning, Sol and I ate breakfast and decided to keep moving. After making sure our campsite looked just like it had when we stopped there, we kept moving toward that golden mass on the horizon. We didn't talk much; I was too busy thinking about what Sol told me last night to hold a cognitive conversation.

I couldn't handle the fact that I had ended someone else's life. Who cares who it was? It was still a person. And now they were dead. Because of me.

"Tell me more about District 5," I said suddenly, eager to fill the silence where my mind went to wander.

"Um… okay," Sol said. "We, uh, come from the same, uh, gang. There are a bunch of gangs on the streets of 5. Everyone hates everyone. It's a rabid pit of wolves biting the ears off their own young." She shakes her head vehemently. "We've known each other for years. Our… our, uh, parents were friends."

"Oh," I said. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I didn't want silence right now, but I couldn't think of anything else to talk about. We continued to walk in silence for a few minutes, until Sol perked up and cried,

"Look!" She was pointing to a little blip that was vaguely person shaped. "That's a tribute. It has to be." She turned to me with a grin on her freckled face. "Come on. Let's go get them!" She took off running across the plain, leaving me to stumble after her.

The tribute we were chasing—it looked like a boy, with a 7 emblazoned on his back and enormous shoulders. He was huge. I wasn't so sure that I wanted to willingly run into a fight with him, but what choice did I have? Sol was going, and I needed to protect her. We were friends, right? That's what friends do. They protect each other.

"Ah, the fives," the 7 boy said, still with his back turned to us. "Come to kill me? Good luck."

"And the same to you," Sol said, before she launched at them. "Aces, help me kill him!"

Hesitating, I took my sword off my belt and engaged as well. 7 was throwing punches left and right, and I swung my sword toward his head. He ducked at the last moment, making me nearly dislocate my right arm. My other arm was screaming in pain, but I pushed through it and told it to shut up. I was panting with the exertion, but Sol and I were slowly chipping away at 7's exterior. His clothes were becoming tattered and stained with blood, but so were mine. My jacket, which still only had sleeve was ripped to shreds, and I had been slugged in so many spots I could hardly feel my body anymore.

I thought we were going to win. We were going to bring down this monstrous boy. But like everything seemed to in my life, it came crashing down.

7 threw a punch, and his fist made contact with the same bloody spot on the side of my head. I staggered backward, crying out in pain as the world twirled around me. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I think I collapsed, since the ground rushed toward me way fasting than it should but I couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel, couldn't think—

I probably passed out. I couldn't tell. Everything was still sliding in and out of focus, and the moment I tried to sit up, a wave of black crossed over my vision and I collapsed again, feeling bile rise to my throat. I rolled over onto my back, holding myself up by my shaking hands, expelling the meager contents of my stomach. I pounded my fist against the grass, trying to convince myself to get to my feet.

"Aces!" Sol shouted desperately. _Have… to… get… up… help… Sol…_

I staggered to my feet, my legs shaking with the sudden weight and I grabbed my sword—by the blade, not the hilt—and it cuts into the palm of my hand, wetting the metal with blood. The world was swaying beneath my feet as I stumbled toward Sol and 7.

Sol screamed, something that I didn't—or couldn't—see causing her anguish. "Sol!" I yelled as I lifted my sword. With one swing at 7's neck, his head toppled off his shoulders and blood sprayed all over both of us. Sol cried out. Whether from pain or terror, I couldn't tell.

I dropped my sword as my legs gave out. Black spots were dancing in my eyes and I felt like I couldn't get any air into my lungs.

"Hey, hey!" a weak voice said soothingly. "Breathe, Aces, breathe. It's okay."

I hyperventilated until finally I felt like I had enough air. I tried to sit up, but all I got was another wave of black. I fell back against the ground, for a moment, unconsciousness swept over me.

"Aces!" the weak voice cried. Someone was desperately shaking my arm, obviously trying to wake me up. "Don't die on me… I don't want to die alone…"

"You're—you're g-going to—to die—?" I stammered. My mouth felt numb, and I was having trouble making my lips form around my words.

"…y-yes."

"Why? How?" It was a dumb question. I couldn't figure out why I said it. All I could tell is that someone was dying beside me—Sol. It was Sol. Sol was dying beside me. The only human I could remember meeting that was the boy from 7 was dying beside me. "Sol!" I exclaimed, launching into a sitting position. I fought back to black and rolled over so I was looking at her. "Don't die…"

She smiled weakly. I could see a stab wound in her stomach—where did 7 get a knife? Sol had one yesterday… did he turn her own weapon against her? "It's not—not that easy," she said softly. "Win, okay? Win for me."

"Win?" I repeated. "You mean… there's a winner to the Hunger Games?"

She laughed weakly, tears welling in her eyes. "Yes. Of course there's a Victor. And it needs to be you. The Capitol can fix you."

"…I don't want to be fixed," I admitted. "I don't want to turn back into the Aces from before the Games. I can figure out my past without actually remembering it."

"They'll f-fix you anyway," Sol said, seeming to pour her anger into those words. "The Capitol doesn't care about what we want. That's why they squashed the rebellion." With some effort, she lifted her head and locked eyes with me. I noticed in that moment that her eyes were icy blue, but somehow held warmth. "You wanted to know what side we were on. We were rebels. We still were. And… and we weren't friends. We hated each other."

"You… you lied to me?" I said disbelievingly.

"I couldn't bring myself to hate you anymore. And I couldn't die knowing that the new you hated me. You were so cocky before but now… you're so _nice_. And so confused. I couldn't let you stumble around the arena with no idea what was going on. You would have died immediately. Everyone back in 5 would kill me for saying this but… I couldn't bear to live with that. Before all of this" She gestures around with a shaking arm. "I wanted you to die in the most horrible way possible." She was silent, with her eyes closed. I reached out touched her arm, afraid she was about to drop into the never ending abyss. "And there's one other thing you know."

"What's that?" I whispered, almost inaudibly. I knelt, pulling her head into my lap. She took a deep breath and smiled contentedly, her eyes still closed.

"I was the one who pushed you into the hole," she said, her voice so weak and quiet I could barely hear it. "I hit you in the back of the head with my backpack. I wanted you to die. But I-I-I a-almost think this—this is b-better—"

"Sol," I whispered. "please don't go."

"I'm sorry," she murmured. Her head lolled sideways, resting against my knee. she exhaled through her nose, and a cannon fired.

I was frozen for a long time. I hardly even breathed. Maybe it was because I wanted to join her in death. Tears silently slid down my cheeks, and I choked back a sob, squeezing my eyes closed in an effort to stem the waterworks. "Why…?" I whispered. "Why did you have to go, Sol?" I closed my eyes and sighed.

I slowly closed Sol's cold, unseeing eyes. Just like that girl from 3 who was in the sky last night. Their eyes staring into the void, to the artificial stars, but never seeing it.

I laid Sol on the ground, folding her arms across her chests. I squeezed her hand once and whispered, "Goodbye, Sol. Even if we weren't friends before, we are now."

With shaking limbs, I got to my feet and decided to head toward the shiny gold blob. It kept getting closer, and by now I could see someone moving around near. More than one person, actually. At least three people had taken up residence at the gold mass. It was, at least, starting to take on some shape. It looked vaguely horn shaped.

The sun started to set, and a hovercraft touched down to retrieve Sol and 7's bodies. I watched them go from a far, knowing this would likely be the last time I ever saw Sol's face in person. If what she said was true, that we hated each other, I doubt I would be welcomed at her funeral.

I was exhausted, but I couldn't go to sleep. It was too dangerous, out in this open plain with nobody keeping watch over me. And so I pushed onwards, trying to figure out how many tributes were left in the arena. Sol had said the day before that there were nine tributes left. Two died the next day. That left seven. Six, not including me. Six tributes to go through until I got home. Was it too much to ask for the others to run themselves into the ground while I supervised?

It was strange that I wanted to go home. I didn't know what home was. I didn't know what it felt like, what it looked like, or anything. I knew that it was called District 5, specialized in power, and had a lot of gangs, one of which I was a part of. I didn't want to be in a gang. If I got home, I would refuse to rejoin them. I didn't care what they said or did. I wouldn't be violent anymore. I'd had enough violence in the past two days for a lifetime. I was content to go back to 5, adopt a couple of cats, and live out the rest of my days by a fireplace with some good books and some cookies or something. No more violence, no more blood, no more death. Everything could be okay, and I could be happy. Even though I didn't want to be happy with Sol by my side, being happy too.

It was very early in the morning when an announcement rang across the arena.

"ATTENTION, ATTENTION TRIBUTES. CONGRATULATIONS ON MAKING IT TO THE FINAL SIX! TOMORROW AT DAWN, A FEAST WILL BE HELD AT THE CORNUCOPIA. ANY TRIBUTE THAT DOES NOT ATTEND WILL HAVE THEIR TRACKER EXPLODED. GOOD DAY AND MAY THE ODDS BE EVER IN YOUR FAVOR."

After the voice stopped speaking, the arena rang with silence. I quickened my gait, not exactly sure what they meant by 'tracker exploded' but not wanting to find out. I was going to assume the large golden mass was the Cornucopia, since there were no other structures for miles around.

I circled around the Cornucopia so I could come at it from the back, running in order to beat the three tributes at the Cornucopia, as all of them were still asleep. I crouched behind the golden horn, hardly even moving for fear of alerting the three to my presence.

"Hey!" one of them yelled. "Look over there! It's that wily girl from 2! Get her!"

The three tributes ran off, and a few minutes later, a cannon fired. I wasn't sure who died, but I would put my money on the 'wily girl from 2'. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath. They hadn't found me. They weren't going to find me. Once the feast started, I would appear and everything would be fine.

As the sun started to peak over the horizon, a table rose in front of the Cornucopia, stocked with every supply and weapon imaginable. I had my sword—with the boy from 7's blood still on it.

Another cannon fired through the arena as I charged out from behind the Cornucopia. I knew they wanted it to end now. This was their grand finale, and whoever didn't show up was just killed.

Two of the Cornucopia tributes had turned on each other, and the third was trying to break it up. He was reminding them that 'we still have tributes to fight! Keep it together!'

A girl dashed out from inside the near-empty Cornucopia and put a knife into the back of one of the distracted Cornucopia Campers. The boy's cannon fired a moment later, and I noticed that that girl with the knives (District 8? District 6?) had her sights set on me. I grabbed my sword and swung at her head. She ducked, kicking her leg out. Her foot hit my chest, sending me flying backward and skidding across the table of supplies. Most of them toppled to the ground, but I wasn't concerned with that. The supplies didn't matter. In an hour, I'd either be a Victor, or dead.

The girl who I had determined came from District 6 jumped onto the table as well, but was suddenly yanked backward and thrown into the Cornucopia. Her head cracked against the metal, and with a sickening crunch, her cannon fired. Her body dropped to the ground, completely lifeless and once more staring blankly ahead.

The two remaining tributes and I were at a standstill. There was the girl from 4, and the boy from 10. The boy from 10 was strong and bulky. The girl from 4 was small and agile. And I was… well, me. An amnesiac kid from a gang who probably lived on the streets.

10 struck first. But instead of striking me, he lashed out at the girl from 4, probably the one he viewed as higher competition.

I jumped off the table and joined their fight.

It was long and bloody. The girl from 4 lost an eyeball, and I sliced 10's left hand clean off. I knew that if I lived, it would give me nightmares for years. It almost made me throw up then and there, but I would be dead if I had…

One terrible swing from 4's sword left me struggling to keep my innards from becoming outards as I tried to keep fighting. 4 was staggering, coughing up blood until she ran into the table of supplies, flipping over it and landing headfirst on the ground. A crack sounded through the arena, the boom of her cannon drowning it out.

Finally 10 turned to me. We were both dying. It was an outlasting game. But this time, it was not whoever ate first lost. It was whoever succumbed to the sweet, sweet release of death first.

_It's time to come home, Aces, _a voice said in my head. Or maybe it wasn't in my head, and Sol's ghost had come back to drag me to the beyond. _You tried your best._

_I… can't… leave… yet…_

A cannon fired.

…

I woke up to the steady beat of a heart-rate monitor and the silence of a hospital. It excited me to know that I recognized it—that meant I'd been in a hospital before. My head was fuzzy which made me think I was on painkillers. I suppose it made sense, since my intestines were literally falling out of my body.

But I was alive.

I had won. For Sol. And I slowly sifted through my traumatized mind, finding images of 10's severed hand and 4's eyeball and 7's headless corpse and Sol's dead body laying on the ground with her eyes open and unseeing—

I didn't find anything new. I assumed the Capitol couldn't fix the damage, but I liked to think it was because they honored my wishes. Of course, I knew that wasn't the case, if anything Sol had said was true.

"Hello, Aces," a voice said in the doorway, making me jump.

"Um… hi," I said, surprised at how hoarse my voice is.

"Do you know where you are?" the tall, striking woman asked. She had bright purple hair, which was a bit of a shock to my system, and her eyes were a strange, unnatural amber color.

"Yes," I said, almost impatiently. "I'm in the Capitol. I won the Hunger Games."

"Yes, you did." She was talking to me like I was three years old. Just because I was an amnesiac didn't give you the right to act like I was a toddler! I still knew how basic human function worked. And I was a Victor of the Hunger Games! I didn't know how many of those there were, but still, it was quite the accomplishment! There are twenty-three other kids who couldn't say the same thing.

Well, I suppose they couldn't say anything, seeing as they were all dead.

"Did you mess with my head?" I asked.

"We tried to fix your amnesia, yes," she answered diligently. "However, our doctors—who are the best of the best, mind you—found that there was no way to repair the damage to your memories without causing harm to the other parts of your brain. I do hope you can cope with this, and find a way back to your old life—"

"Wait, so you're saying there's no way to restore my memories?" I asked, my voice getting higher with every word. It was too good to be true!

"Yes, and I'm very sorry—"

"Yes!" I cried, pumping my fist in the air. I hadn't realized it was attached to an I.V., and well… it wasn't anymore. "S-sorry…" I mumbled sheepishly as the woman stood stunned in the doorway.

"That's fine," she said quickly, but her tone suggested it was anything but. I knew that to her, I was just a weird, rowdy child who was not important. It didn't matter to me, though. I was still too happy that I never had to worry about becoming the old Aces again.

I could live without the weight of my old life on my shoulders.

But of course, I knew there would always be a new weight. And it would never be lifted.

…

My homecoming to District 5 was… strange, to say the least. Seeing as I couldn't remember ever seeing this place before, or any of the people there, it was strange to have so many who knew me and remembered my face and liked the _old_ Aces. There were people who apparently were my friends, but I couldn't figure out why anyone would hang out with them. They were a part of my parents' gang, and we had been friends for years. There was something off about this friendship, though… it didn't seem genuine. They seemed almost like they were afraid of me.

And then there were my little sisters. Willa was nine and Karina was thirteen. They were both ecstatic to see me come home, and I could tell they were one part of my life I wished I could remember. They were both so happy, and innocent. Not at all like the other people I had met that claimed I had liked them, been friends with them, known them all my life.

I had found out two days before when I was still in the Capitol that I got an entire house. The Capitol built 'Victors' Villages' in each district, and I got to take up residence there. It was the first place I went once the crowds cleared away, and Willa and Karina were overjoyed.

My strange, mostly-silent parents were tagging along, following behind the three of us as Karina led the way through the large main city of 5. Once we reached the Victors' Village, we entered the house I was assigned to.

As soon as the front door was closed, however, my parents changed. My father asked to speak with me upstairs, and I unknowingly followed him.

Once he closed the door, he pushed me up against the wall, got right up in my face and said, "Alright, boy. Drop the act. I know you don't actually have amnesia. It was a ploy to get Capitol sympathy. Well, guess what? You have to spend the rest of your _life_ acting like the stupid, _kind, nice_, amnesiac from 5 who made friends with his most hated enemy. Look what you've done. Are you proud of yourself?"

"W-what?" I stammered. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, please. Don't play dumb with me, boy. Someone as thick-headed as you could never lose their memories just because of a hard fall. Toughen up."

And then he did something I never thought he would.

He reeled back his fist and punched me in the nose.

It was a good thing I had the wall there to run into, because if not, I think I would have collapsed with shock. Still, I gaped at him, my eyes wide, unable to believe he really just did that.

"Get out," I said firmly, crossing my arms over my chest.

"What did you just say to me, you ungrateful little—"

"I said 'get out'," I said curtly, pointing to the door. "And take your wife with you. I don't want to see you here, _ever again_."

"You can't kick me out—"

"Actually, I can. See, it's my house," I say. "Did you win the Hunger Games? No? Then, it's not you house. So, bye-bye."

He pulled back his fist to punch me again. My nose was already bleeding from the first one. I ducked as his fist went flying, and he instead the punched the wall. "Oh, look what you've done," I say. "Now you have to pay for my wall too. Such a shame. Now _get out_."

And get out he did. I never saw him or my mother again. Willa and Karina never did either. I guess once someone wins the Hunger Games, you really don't want to mess with them, even if they're your fifteen-year-old amnesiac son.

…

In Aces's lifetime, he would go on to marry Kiana Ferguson when they were both twenty-two. They would have three children, the first of which being named Soleil after Aces's childhood enemy and short-term best friend, Solanna. Both of them were called Sol. Both of them participated in the Hunger Games.

Their second child was a boy named Charger. Charger was thankfully spared from the Games, although being reaped at age fourteen but being volunteered for. He was slightly Hunger Games obsessed child; he wanted to watch every single one of them, simply because the Victors were always so interesting.

The third and final Chaney child was another little girl who was called Spark. Spark was a cheerful girl who was never touched by the tragedy of the Hunger Games. She always lived life to the fullest, and was a total daddy's girl.

Aces eventually watched his Games. This was a simpler time, before the recap and Victor interview. He saw how cocky he was pre-games, and hated himself for it. But, his then-girlfriend Kiana was there for him during the ups and downs of finding out just how horrible a person he used to be.

Still, not a day goes by where Aces doesn't miss Sol. He is plagued by nightmares of 10's bloody stump, severed eyeballs, heads without a body, and always those horrible unseeing eyes. They always stare at the artificial sky, cold, lifeless, without truly seeing a thing.

Still, life goes on. Some way, somehow, Aces figures out how to be happy.

**A/N: Holy hell was this chapter long. Man oh man oh man. Anyways, do you like Aces? What about Sol? Do you like her? Was this chapter good? I feel like it might have been a little bit too fast paced, but I always think that with my writing. **

**Aces had quite the personality overhaul. Going from being cocky and narcissistic with little care for other people to being meek, polite and kindhearted. Personally, I like it. He's one of my favorites. I hope it wasn't too poorly done.**

**Next up, we have the first Career. He's a real beast, and everyone will probably hate him. Anyway, tell me what you think. Did I do a good job with this chapter? **

**Here's a random question. What do you put on your hamburger/cheeseburger? I put ketchup, mustard and pickles on mine. **

**-Amanda**


	3. Ares Stander

**Name: Ares Stander**

**Age: 18**

**District: 2**

**Gender: Male**

**Kills: 7**

…

Volunteering isn't supposed to be allowed.

There is supposed to be no way out of your fate once you are Reaped. Your name comes out of the bowl, and now you have to reap the consequences.

Of course, this message is never conveyed, since only the most crazy of people will have the mettle to throw themselves into the Hunger Games. The Capitol doesn't even see a point to tell anyone. It is an unspoken rule that no one even knows exists.

Ares has never been one for rules.

Despite being the son of the former Head Peacekeeper of District 2, raised to never question authority, Ares knows that this is his only chance to get the fame, fortune and throngs of admirers that he desires. No, that he deserves. The Hunger Games is the only way.

Ares is a war-hero. He took down hundreds of rebels during the rebellion at just fifteen-years-old, and knows just how easy it will be to get through twenty-three sniveling idiots.

He's practically guaranteed Victory at this point. A tiny, shifty twelve-year-old who has some dumb name like Jessica gets reaped just before he volunteers for whatever idiotic boy's name comes out of that bowl.

"Rocky Harden!" A short boy stumbles out of the fourteen-year-olds section, but before he can take even two steps, Ares smirks and yells confidently,

"I volunteer as tribute!"

A ripple of gasps go off, spreading throughout the whole square. Ares's smirk only gets wider as he mounts the stage and takes the microphone from the stunned, ditzy escort whose name is probably Capitola. Ares doesn't care; he isn't chaffed by the names of those beneath him, and no matter how highly he views the Capitol, their names are not important to him.

"I'm Ares Stander, also known as the Victor of the 3rd Annual Hunger Games!" Ares yells into the microphone, his voice ringing through the square. He looks at all the shocked faces packed together like sardines, and he grins wickedly. Everyone will remember his face—and no one will forget his name.

…

The girl from 11, Camellia, is disgusted.

How could someone _voluntarily _throw themselves into these infernal Games? How could someone be so crazy to _willingly_ put their hand in the air and yell, "I volunteer!"? Cami wouldn't do if someone put a gun to her head. She will die either way, won't she? What's the point of choosing to fight and hurt and scream and finally, finally die when she could just get a bullet put in her head? It would be quicker, easier, and much less bloody. She would never know what it feels like to traumatized by her experiences. After all, how could she? She'd be dead.

When the gong rings, Cami springs off her plate, running light on her feet toward the Cornucopia. When she reaches the Cornucopia, she snatches up a hatchet and whirls around, slashing open the face of the boy from 1.

She looks around for her allies, the girl from 6, the girl from 2, and the boy from 9, wildly trying to find the tributes she has made friends with in the past three days. She doesn't know what she'd do if she lost them. She'd stumble around the arena, completely lost and alone, probably losing her sanity and her entire will to live in the process. Because she may not have known her allies for long, but she'll do anything to protect them.

She spots the boy from 9, but it's too little, too late. Ares has descended upon him, leaving a trail of dying tributes in his wake. He rips the boy's arm clean off his shoulder, and Rye dies over the next nine, agonizing minutes as Ares left him to rot.

Cami is furious. But even she is not crazy enough to challenge Ares Stander. After all, she's not like Ares. She's not here by choice, and she'll die because of it.

…

The boy from 9, Rye, is screaming.

He doesn't know how he hasn't died yet. He knows that if he falls unconscious, he will never wake up again. And so he screams and screams and screams, mangled swear words and insults to Ares Stander mixed into his agonized cries. He's halfway to death's door, yes, that much is true, and if he could, he would take Ares down with him. But he can't.

Ares has run off in chase of the boy from 10. Cami and the girl from 6 kneel down beside their dying, suffering, agonized ally, the girl from 2 standing awkwardly behind them. No one moves for a few moments, aside from Rye's shuddering breaths as the world slowly, slowly flits away from him.

Cami leans over him for a few moments, her face conflicted with emotion, before she finally leans down and stabs Rye through the heart with her hatchet. He dies with the sound of Cami's voice… "I'll kill him for you."

…

The girl from 6, Kia, is furious.

She vows to kill Ares for Rye. She _will_ kill Ares, even if it's the last thing she does. She sits at the Cornucopia with Cami and the girl from 2, angry at the world for forsaking her like this. She doesn't deserve this. Cami doesn't deserve this. The girl from 2 doesn't deserve this. Rye didn't deserve it either. The only person in this entire arena that really, truly deserves this is Ares Stander of District 2, and he deserves to die.

Kia lays in wait for Ares to return. She knows he will be back. He will return with his swords blazing, ready to kill them all, and she will kill him first. She doesn't care if she dies trying. Kia _will_ avenge Rye, and all of Ares's other victims.

Three years ago, during the rebellion, Kia was one of the most flaming rebels in all of District 6. Her being here is the first instance of a rigged Reaping, but it certainly won't be the last. Ares's existence itself makes her blood boil and her limbs shake with rage. How can anyone support the Capitol like he does? How could anyone see the Capitol as something _good_, as something deserving of patriotism?

That's the reason Kia will kill him. Not just for Rye. Not just for his other Hunger Games victims. But for the rebellion, for him being hailed as a war hero, when she did more than he did three times over, and never got thanks once. Because her side lost. Why should she be a hero when she was in the wrong the whole time? She never killed; but Ares murdered tens of people, some as young as five, without batting an eyelash.

Kia knows that Ares deserves to die. And even when she falls to Ares two days later, when he bashes her and Cami's heads together seventeen times until their cannons finally fire, she knows he deserves to die. Someone else will just have to do the deed.

…

The girl from 2, Jayda, is terrified.

She had heard the tales of Ares Stander, the fifteen-year-old boy who killed hundreds of rebels. She _should_ know him; after all, he's the reason her parents are dead.

Jayda's family was part of a very, very small faction of rebels based in District 2. The group became even smaller when Jayda was nine, just before the Capitol triumphed over the rebels. A team of loyalists, lead by none other than Ares Stander himself, just fifteen-years-old. He killed the adults, shooting them all in the head before they could even blink.

Jayda had watched her parents fall, dead to the ground, but the worst was yet to come.

Ares had lined all the kids up on the wall, and demanded they swear their allegiance to the Capitol—or else, they die. He killed children as young as five that day, because they were too stupid to just go along with it. Jayda had even lost her older brother, who spat in Ares face when asked for his pledge.

But Jayda was smarter than the others—and she wanted to live.

She swore her allegiance like a good little puppet, and they stupidly let her go. And now she is here.

The Hunger Games are penance for the crimes of the Districts. But District 2 hardly did anything wrong. Jayda, though—Jayda is getting the comeuppance the people of her home believe she deserves.

But she's not going to go down without a fight. And she'll bring Ares down with her. She is still telling this to herself one day later when Ares grabs her around the neck and effortlessly separates her head from her shoulders.

…

The boy from 3, Circuit, doesn't want to die.

He just wants to go home, settle down with his family and live a quiet life in the Victors' Village. Actually, scratch that—he doesn't want any of this. He didn't ask to be Reaped, certainly not along side Ares Stander.

Circuit escaped the Bloodbath, yes, that much is true, but Ares is hunting in his vicinity and the monster from 2—Circuit can't bring himself to call him a boy, he's a demon straight from hell, that's what he is—is hardly trying to conceal himself. You'd have to be insane to attack him! Insane enough to… to… to volunteer for the Hunger Games!

Below, Ares rages through the trees, his double swords cutting through the everything in his path. Circuit shivers in fear, knowing that in the bright sunlight Ares can surely see him. His only consolation is that Ares is stupid and oblivious, he will never notice Circuit if only he could get his shaking limbs under control.

Ares grunts from below him, and Circuit almost snorts. Suddenly the branch he is sitting on becomes detached from his tree and he falls, screaming to the ground. Ares's sword had cut the branch—he found Circuit!

That's when it hits the small boy from 3: he is going to die.

With one slice of Ares's enormous sword, Circuit's head tumbles from his shoulders and his screams die in his throat as his conscience flies away, a result of Ares's unbound violence.

…

The boy from 4, Bight, is confident.

Bordering on cocky, some would say. Despite that boy from 2, Ares-what's-his-name, Bight knows his victory is all but guaranteed. How could it not be? He's in the final eight, no, the final four, it's only been two days but twenty tributes are already dead, tributes have been dropping like flies and he's only down for two of those deaths. It makes his blood boil when he thinks about that boy from 2, who is probably down for all the other deaths that he hasn't seen.

But Bight knows what he's going to do: he's going to take down the boy from 2. He's going to tear Ares limb from limb for trying to take the glory that rightfully belongs to the boy from 4. He may not have an eleven in training, but a ten is as good as it's going to get, and he has to prove that. Because Bight Lewiston always gets what he wants, and what he wants is Victory.

He knows Ares is still in the arena, but so is the girl from 6 and the girl from 11. But he knows those two girl will be easy pickings, that Ares is the true final boss, that Ares will be the hardest to defeat. Nevertheless, Bight is confident. Why shouldn't he be?

…

Ares is cheerful.

He has had a very good few days, getting exactly what he wants. Of course, he still has three tributes to cut through before he gets what he _truly_ desires, but he is so close he can taste it. He already has five kills under his belt—he would have six if that bothersome girl from 11 hadn't stolen the boy from 9 from him—and he will add three more to that number by the end of the day.

It's very early in the morning of Day 3 in the arena, and Ares returns to the Capitol. He sees the girl from 6, the rebel scum, sitting by their fire—_stupid move,_ he thinks, but then again rebels are all idiots—staring him dead in the eyes. Fire dances in those brown irises, and as Ares stalks out of the woods, she grabs her ally and her weapon, and she charges.

Ares effortlessly fights off the two idiot outliers. The fight barely lasts for five minutes before Ares gets a good grip on both girls' heads and starts bashing their foreheads against each other. Camellia screams, flailing desperately, but there is nothing she nor Kia can do.

Kia swears colorfully at Ares, trying to stab him even as the life is hit out of her. At the sixteenth hit, she lets her little knife fly, knowing full well that she and Cami are as good as dead, but also knowing she has to bring Ares down with her. The little knife finds its way into Ares's ribcage, but the thick-headed monster hardly even notices.

He bashes once more, and drops two lifeless corpses to the ground as double cannons fire, signifying the death of the firecracker from 11 and the rebel scum from 6.

Ares looks at their bloody corpses with disgust clear in his eyes. He kicks Kia's body and says, "Sleep tight, rebel scum."

That's when he notices Kia's farewell present. He scoffs, removing the knife from his stomach and sliding it into Kia's left eye. With one last kick he turns and stalks into the forest in search of his final opponent.

…

The Gamemakers force them together within the hour, but Ares was already hot on Bight's tail anyway. Still, he is just as happy to not have to keep looking.

The Cornucopia shines in the early morning sun as Ares approaches, ignoring the pack of strange dog mutts the Gamemakers sent to force him to return. He is not complaining. No matter how much he has enjoyed this vacation of rebel punishment, he is excited for the end to come so he can get back to his fame and fortune. All of it rightly deserved, of course.

Whatever the idiot from 4—he also has a name, but he, and consequently his name, is beneath Ares notice—has planned is nothing compared to Ares's sheer strength and ruthlessness. The guaranteed Victor from 2 can see the idiot from 4 sitting on a crate in front of the Cornucopia, sharpening double swords.

As Ares approaches, Bight stands up and says, "Well? Shall we get started?"

Ares doesn't say anything; why should he bother? Bight is completely worthless in his eyes, completely and totally forgettable. Why should he even acknowledge Bight's existence? He doesn't matter. He'll be dead in ten minutes hence. No, not ten minutes—make that five.

Bight strikes first, launching himself at Ares with the intent to kill. Ares scoffs, easily sidestepping Bight's attack and stabbing the cocky boy from 4 in the back with his sword. Bight screams in pain, crumpling to the ground as blood soaks through the back of his shirt.

Ares smiles that same wicked grin from the Reaping, as Bight screams in agony. He places his foot on Bight's back, digging the knife deeper into the boy's back, and once more Bight screams. "Just… just end… end it already…" Bight begs, his voice weak and agonized.

But of course, Ares has never been for mercy.

He turns Bight over until the boy is laying on his back, forcing the knife through his body even further. The tip of it, covered in blood, peeks through Bight's stomach, tearing his shirt, and Bight lets out a strangled scream. Ares simply takes a seat and watches Bight suffer in agony.

Finally, after seventeen minutes, Bight loses consciousness and flits off into the great unknown, leaving Ares Stander as the Victor of the 3rd Annual Hunger Games.

…

Ares is so beloved by the Capitol that they devise a wonderful idea called a 'Victory Tour' to take place six months after his astounding Victory. He will travel to each district of Panem and rub his Victory into their faces, thus quelling rebellion further as they see how much of a patriot Ares is. Of course, Ares loves all the attention. After all, he was born for the spotlight, you know.

Anyone else would feel cheated out of _their_ Victory Tour as well, but Aces and Deasia are just happy they didn't have to deal with the trauma talking about their dead allies and victims in front of their families. They certainly aren't complaining.

Ares finds Aces and Deasia terribly underwhelming. Aces and Deasia, of course, hate his guts and spend as little time with him as possible.

Aces makes sure that Ares knows well and good just how much he wishes Ares would throw himself off a cliff and into a very large pot of lava without outright saying it. The Capitol can't have their Victors hating each other, now can they?

When Ares returns to District 2, he decides to open up a school. After seeing the abysmal Victors and tributes the outliers provide, he decides that he could train 2's children to decimate the playing field and bring home honor to the district of masonry. The Academy starts out small, but it slowly gains more attention and before long, hundreds of 2's children and teens have signed up to train for fame and fortune at the Stander Academy. Ares, of course, sits high upon his thrown and surveys the empire of murderers he has built, still smirking wickedly.

Because if the road to hell is paved in corpses and watered with blood, Ares's path is the bloodiest of them all.

**A/N: I'm sorry this one took so long. Ares is just hard to write about. Especially as I was trying to start it. I re-wrote the beginning multiple times just because I didn't know where I was going. I had a different thing written a while ago about him but I gave up on the idea because it was too short. **

**This chapter probably sucks. I've rewritten it so many times and I still hate how it turned out. But I digress.**

**Anyways, what do you think of Ares? Did you like the way I wrote this chapter? I'm trying to write each Victor a little bit differently, but I'm sure I'll eventually run out of ideas. **

**I'll see you soon (hopefully) for our first Victor from District 8, Aline Lysander. **

**Random Question of the Day: if you could visit any fictional world, where would you go?**

**My answer: well… it's fictional, but it's not a place anybody would know, simply because I created it. Other than that, I'll go to Hogwarts and then spend the summer at Camp Half-blood. **

**-Amanda**


	4. Aline Lysander

**Name: Aline Lysander**

**Age: 17**

**District: 8**

**Gender: female**

**Kills: 2**

…

Until a district receive their first Victor, mentoring is done by a Peacekeeper. As only three districts' Peacekeeper mentors have been relieved of their duties, the other remaining nine have been itching to be freed as well. Captain Thread Potter, of District 8, has not had a single tribute of his make it past the Bloodbath, and he can only hope that one day that will change.

Unfortunately, Captain Potter doubts this, as the 4th Hunger Games marks the introduction of trained tributes from District 2, later dubbed 'Careers'. These 'Careers' are trained directly below Ares Stander, at his pretentiously named Stander Academy, and even—_volunteer_—for the Games, just like their ostentatious leader.

It makes Potter want to gag. Those people from 2 are even crazier than the rapists and murderers in the grimy alleyways of District 8! No one in 8 is stupid enough to put their hand in the air and shout that they volunteer. Not even they want to die _that_ badly.

Eventually, Potter is sure someone strong will come along. It will probably be after he is long dead, but still, it would be a Victor. The saddest part is that he won't be alive to see it. He's sure by that point he'll be dead in the ground, buried beneath a grave, just like all of the tributes he will have mentored. How is he supposed to help them? He has never been in the Hunger Games.

On the day of the Reaping for the 4th Annual Hunger Games, Potter simply sighs as he sits on the stage, waiting to see what corpses he would have to get close to this year. It's only been four years, and he has already given up any hope he has a getting someone strong.

"Let's start with the girls, shall we?" the escort says into her microphone as she scurries toward the girls' bowl, filled with extra slips this year. The Capitol introduced a mechanic of the Games called 'tesserae' just weeks before this Reaping. This puts more names in the bowl, therefore hopefully making a stronger tribute more likely to be reaped. "Aline Lysander!"

The girl slowly leaves the eighteen-year-olds section, and Potter gives her a once over as she mounts the stage. _Looks slightly underfed, _he notes. _Perhaps a Community Home kid? _

"Aline! No!" _Boyfriend? Father? Brother?_

_Looks pretty strong, though, _Potter thinks as the escort painstakingly chooses a slip from the boys' bowl. _Tall, pretty, not crying. _He has to hold in his laugh. _Always a good thing. _

The same cannot be said for her district partner. "Thread Holloway!"

When there is movement in the eighteen-year-olds section, Potter looks up hopefully, but his hopes are dashed as Thread begins to wail and sob. Peacekeepers surge forward and pull the boy to the stage, and Potter gets a good look at the boy. _Scrawny, _he notices first. _Crying. Clearly thinks he is going to die. Not a very good combination. _

He sighs as Aline and Thread shake hands and are whisked away into the Justice Building. He can already tell who he should put his attention to, but it's not like he can just sit Thread down and tell him he is a dead man walking. Even though Potter doubts Thread will leave the bloodbath alive, he still knows he needs to put focus on both of his tributes. That is his duty as a mentor, and as a citizen of District 8.

But deep down he knows there is no hope for Thread Holloway. If anyone from 8 is taking Victory this year, it will be Aline.

…

"So, what's the plan?" Aline's voice doesn't waver when she speaks like she feared it might.

At the odd look on Captain Potter's face, Aline says, her voice shaking slightly this time, "You do have a plan, right?"

"I'll be honest with you," Potter says, his eyes jumping back and forth between Thread and Aline. "I don't know how to do this. Every tribute I've had has died in the bloodbath."

Aline glares at him. "So what? You're not even going to try?"

"No," Potter says calmly. "Of course I'm going to try. It's just not going to be easy."

Aline relaxes against her chair and sighs in relief. "Good. I have to get home."

"W-what about me?" Thread asks nervously, his voice quiet.

Aline bites her lip. If she wins, Thread dies. If Thread wins, she dies. If anyone else but her wins, she dies. And she _has_ to go home. She can't leave her family high and dry like this. The next eldest in her family won't be eligible to take tesserae for four years. That tesserae oil and grain certainly won't last that long.

Besides, she promised her siblings she would come home, and Aline never breaks her promises. She'll be damned if she breaks this one, and she can't do that to her siblings. They're all so young. Alex is the oldest, at eight, Adam is six and Adelaide just turned five. If she dies now, Adelaide will hardly even remember she ever existed! But if she wins, none of her siblings will ever have to worry about starving or not having a place to sleep again. Her parents won't have to work, and her father won't be so stressed and exhausted. Maybe things could finally be okay.

Of course, there's still an entire Hunger Games to win before any of that can happen. And if she dies, surely her family will soon follow, and she can't let that happen.

"I'm going to bed," Thread says suddenly, getting out of his chair and hurrying from the room. Aline looks at him oddly, wondering what (aside from the obvious) is wrong. She has never met Thread before, but she doesn't doubt that he hasn't had a very good life. _Maybe he would be better off if he were dead_, she thinks. _No! I can't think like that. I don't know Thread. He could have siblings he has to get home to, just like me. He could have a pregnant girlfriend for all I know! _

"So, Aline," Potter says. "Tell me about yourself. I need to know how to sell you to the sponsors."

"Sponsors?" Aline repeats. "What's that?"

"It's a new thing the Gamemakers are trying," Potter explains, examining the array of pastries in front of them. "Capitolites can give gifts to their favorite tributes—for a price, obviously. Prices go up as the Games go on." He eyes Aline for a moment. "a sponsor gift could save your life, Aline. And to get sponsors, you have to _make people like you_. So, what do you got?"

"I've got three little siblings," Aline says. "I promised them I'd come home. My family could starve if I don't."

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Potter says excitedly. "That's what I need to bring you home! That's what's going to make people like you!"

Aline smiles, doing her best to seem optimistic. As she heads to her room for a change of clothes, she can't help but wonder if maybe, possibly, she could actually have a chance.

…

On the one day of training the tributes are awarded, Aline spends her time searching for a good ally. Finally she comes upon the girl from 10, Sage, and decides she is as good as any, and better than most.

"Hi, I'm Aline," she says, holding out her hand for Sage to shake.

The fifteen-year-old looks up. "Sage Valerie," she says, taking Aline's hand. "District 10."

"District 8," Aline replies, glancing at the roaring fire Sage is currently adding tinder to. "That's impressive."

"Fire is an important heat source," Sage says, shrugging. "It's my job back home. I've got a lot of siblings, so we have a lot of mouths to feed, but at least wood is free."

"How many siblings do you have?" Aline asks curiously, taking a seat beside Sage.

Not looking up from her fire, Sage says off-handedly, "Eleven. I'm the fifth oldest."

If Aline had been standing up, she likely would have stumbled back in surprise. Finally she forces a laugh and says, "And I thought three was a lot!"

"Three?" Sage repeats, incredulous. "I share a room with three of my sisters. I share a bed with one of them."

_You can't let yourself get attached, _Aline thinks suddenly. _Yes, Sage has more siblings. But she's not the oldest. She clearly isn't the only thing keeping her family afloat. You _have _to win._

Sage begins to talk about her sister, Meadow, but Aline tunes out for a moment, still thinking. She watches the boy from 1, Ring, throw knife after knife at a target, and she can already tell what his plan is. Surely he's trained. He wants to win so he can open an Academy like Ares and be hailed as a hero. Still, he has deadly accuracy… "Do you want to be allies?" she blurts suddenly, interrupting Sage's story mid-sentence.

"Uh—yeah, sure," Sage agrees, flashing an odd look at Aline. "As I was saying…"

_Don't get attached, Aline. Sage has to die if you're going to win. _Do not_ get attached._

…

Aline's interview goes well. She talks about how much she wants to see her siblings again, and how she is keeping her family afloat, and how if she dies, surely her family will quickly follow. She ends by talking about her alliance with Sage Valerie, and how one of them is definitely going to take Victory. They have to, right?

And now she rises into the arena, a dangerous, mountainous terrain, full of caves filled with monsters, raging rivers and the potential for deadly forest fires, unfortunately positioned directly beside Ring from 1 and Artemis from 2.

Potter swears colorfully at the screen from the mentoring room until Ares yells for him to shut up, rather rudely he might add.

With a training score of six under her belt, Aline throws herself into the fray, intent on getting supplies, something, anything, that she and Sage can work with. Can't win the Hunger Games if you've starved to death.

She expertly dodges a knife thrown at her by Ring, and meets up with Sage on the outskirts of the Cornucopia clearing.

Mountains surround them on all sides. As the pair hide behind a large boulder, trying to decide which way to go, Potter sits in his chair, feeling like pulling his hair out. He already watched Threat get gutted by the vicious girl from 12, leaving him with half a chance of Victory now. He never knew much about Thread; really, all he knew is that they shared a first name, and that he was eighteen.

_Even if Aline doesn't win, _he thinks, _she'll still have made history. First tribute from 8 to leave the bloodbath with their life. _

…

The 4th Annual Hunger Games were one of the shortest in history. They lasted just two and a half days, with fifteen tributes dying on the first day. Eleven of those deaths come from the bloodbath, and the other four met their grisly ends by falling off the mountains, drowning, or being torn apart by starving mutations deep in the caves.

Aline and Sage are not one of those poor souls. They sit high and dry on a ledge leading into a cave, deep in the mountainous terrain. They have enough supplies to keep going for a few days, and unbeknownst to them, that is all they need.

Artemis, Ring and Fodor find the girl from 9 late on Day 1, viciously killing her by pitching her off a cliff, one of the highest in the arena. Her remains are splattered everywhere, on the surrounding rocks, on the ground, everywhere one could look, they would see pieces of her.

Aline volunteers to take first watch, and Sage gratefully goes to sleep against the cave wall. Sighing, Aline looks back out across the arena, wondering who the cannon from a few minutes ago belonged to. She hopes it was Ring or his companions from 2.

The arena takes on an eerie feeling at night. Shadows grow longer. Sounds echo. It always feels as if one is being watched. The artificial moon, just a ting sliver, hardly gives off any light, and the stars are few and far between. Still, the mountains are quite pretty at this hour, Aline notes. She can hear an owl hoot in the distance, and her mind wanders to her siblings.

Alex is really the only one old enough to understand it if she dies. Adam may be able to comprehend that she is not coming back, but Adelaide will have no clue. Adelaide will hardly even remember she ever existed. Aline has heard of people losing a family member at such a young age that they can't remember them, and to them it feels like that family member never was real in the first place. She can't imagine that happening with her and Adelaide. No, Alex and Adam and her parents would make sure that Aline was never forgotten.

…right?

Eventually, Aline wakes Sage and they switch jobs. As she lays down to go to sleep, it hits her. She made it to the Final Eight. She is so, so close to home.

When Aline wakes, a dazzling sunrise is in plain view of her and Sage. It's so beautiful that Aline has to remind herself that it is fake. None of this place is real. Only the deaths are.

"Isn't it stunning?" Sage says aloud, without looking away from the horizon. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Me either," Aline agrees. "The smog in 8 is so bad we can hardly see the sun at all. Even though it's fake, it's still beautiful."

"I'm sorry," Sage whispers. "The air is clear in 10. Birds are usually singing. It's quite a pretty place if you're out in the pastures."

"I imagine it is," Aline replies.

They silently watch the sunrise for a few minutes before Aline gets to her feet. "We should keep moving," she declares, slinging their backpack over her shoulders.

Sage sighs and stands as well. "I suppose we should. No matter how much I wish we could sit here until everyone else is dead, that's not really an option, is it?"

"No," Aline agrees solemnly. "It is not."

…

At around seven a.m. arena time, which is more like noon on the outside, the girl from 12 lights a match. Laughing to herself, she lights a branch of the nearest tree on fire. In such a water deprived place, the fire quickly begins to catch, jumping from tree to tree as she stands in the middle of all, her master plan finally coming to fruition.

Her master plan fails on her five minutes later when she finds herself trapped by the fire she started, dropping her box of matches and sending the flame out of control as she burns to death over the next seventeen agonizing minutes.

…

"Aline, do you smell smoke?" Sage asks, nervously sniffing the air. In the distance, a cannon fires.

Aline takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the cannon shot. "Yes," she decides. "Look! There!" she exclaims, pointing toward a grove of trees below the cliff they stand upon. At least, they used to be trees. Now they are just a blaze of fire and burning wood, smoke rising to fill the entire arena. "We need to get out here."

"Let's go around the fire," Sage suggests.

"Too late," a voice, walking out of a cave behind them. Handsome Ring, mighty Fodor, and agile Artemis back the pair of outliers against the cliff as fire rages up the sides of the mountain and another cannon goes in the distance.

That's when Aline realizes it: these are the only remaining tributes. The Games could end, right now. And Aline and Sage don't have the upper hand.

No weapons, backed against a blazing fire, in a fight that is three on two. Aline sighs, almost prepared to accept her fate.

Almost.

She takes the backpack off her shoulders and holds it out in front of her, as if that is going to save her life. Artemis even laughs at her weak display of dignity before she dies. "Pathetic," Artemis spits.

And the agile girl from 2 makes a big mistake: she charges. Aline immediately slides to the side, and before Artemis can react, she has thrown herself off a cliff and into a blazing bonfire. She screams in agony for a few moments before she is forever silenced by a cannon shot.

Aline wonders for a moment if that counts as a kill. But she has other things to attend to. The fight is a fraction more fair now, but Aline knows they still have a large disadvantage.

"Aline!" Sage shouts. "Give me the backpack!"

Aline obliges, throwing her friend the backpack as Sage lifts it up to block Fodor's spear. But the backpack is not enough; the spear still passes through the fabric as if it were paper and breaks Sage's chest open. She exhales sharply, falling to her knees with a spear sticking from her chest, the backpack hanging from the handle.

Aline can't believe it. No, she _won't_ believe it. Sage can't die! What about all of her siblings? Suddenly rage fills her veins, and she gets to her feet standing in front of her fallen ally, and she feels Sage press the spear into her hand. For a moment all she does is stare at the dying girl, but then she steels herself and throws herself toward the two Career boys.

The fight is long and brutal. Fodor is fighting weaponless, but still throws punches harder than a rock, and Ring seems to have turned on his ally. The fight is a free-for-all, and Aline is at a clear disadvantage.

But she refuses to give up. She isn't in this for the fame, the glory or the money. No, she has to get home to her siblings. She's come so far, and she can't lose now.

One way or another, the spear becomes lodged in Fodor's head as Sage's cannon sounds. Aline pushes off the pain, the guilt, the sorrow, and focuses on her final opponent as Fodor falls for the final time, dead like his district partner.

In a spur of anger at Sage's death, Aline throws herself forward and uses the momentum to throw both her and Ring off the cliff. Ring screams, swearing colorfully at her as they fall, but Aline doesn't listen. One of them will win this. Now it's just an outlasting game.

One final thought crosses through Aline's head as the heat from the fire becomes intense and everything fades to black.

_I got attached. _

…

When Aline wakes, the only sound she hears is a steady, _beep… beep… beep…_ and for a moment she wonders if she's dead. Finally she cracks her eyes open and finds herself staring at a white ceiling. _I don't think they have those in hell, _Aline thinks. _Or wherever you go when you die. _

She hears the beep machine speed up, and realizes that that is her heartbeat. Her heart is beating. She is not dead. She is _alive_. Did she… did she win? Well, how else would she be alive, if she didn't win?

A dull, muted pain radiates throughout her entire body, and when she looks down finds herself to be burnt and being stitched back together, and she slowly remembers the fire. _Oh, Sage… _she thinks, a melancholy feeling enveloping her as she sits.

Eventually she drops back off into sleep, but Captain Thread Potter sits in her room many hours later, looking over his Victor. She lived. Her siblings must be so happy. And finally, Potter can retire. He's pretty sure he has a grandson.

…

Aline's Victory Tour goes well, up until they reach District 10. Her heart aches when she sees Sage's platform, so full of people, so many of them young, and she has to pause in her speech to wipe her tears. She doesn't care if she seems weak. She _is_ weak, Goddamnit, but that's not necessarily a bad thing, not anymore.

There are tears in her eyes as she leaves the stage of 10, whisked away into the Justice Building for dinner, and for a moment her mind wanders once more. Her siblings were so happy to see her. They will never have to be hungry again. None of them should ever have to suffer.

Again there are tears in her eyes when Alex Lysander is reaped for the Twelfth Annual Hunger Games.

**A/N: This story is not dead! Yay for updating like a good fanfiction writer. **

**This chapter is not my best work. I was beginning to have writer's block when working on it, so it's probably not very good. Still, let me know if it was terrible. Especially the fight scene at the end. That is one of the worst ones I've ever done.**

**What do you think of Aline? How about Captain Potter? What about Sage? Have any theories for how Alex Lysander does during the twelfth Games?**

**Here's a bit of trivia about Aline: originally she was from District 6 and named Alita, then named Alina, until I finally settled on Aline Lysander from District 8.**

**Random Question of day: What book series have you read that has the best movie adaptation?**

**My answer: Harry Potter and Hunger Games was pretty good. Don't get me started on Percy Jackson though.**

**-Amanda**


	5. Amethyst Court

**Name: Amethyst Court**

**Age: 16**

**District: 1**

**Gender: Female**

**Kills: 2**

…

On the morning of the Reapings for the Fifth Annual Hunger Games, Amethyst Court puts her hand in the air and cries, "I volunteer!" much like her twin brother, Ring, did the year previous. But Amethyst, unlike her brother, did not volunteer for the fame, glory or riches. No, she volunteered to escape.

Her shit-storm of a life had gotten a thousand times worse after her brother put his hand in the air. She had allowed herself a slight, fleeting hope that maybe, just maybe, Ring would reign victorious and return to her.

Everyone knows how that turned out for her.

And so Amethyst puts her hand in the air and declares that she volunteers, taking the place of the sobbing fifteen-year-old whose name came out of that miserable glass bowl. This is her escape. Her way out. This is how Amethyst will get her freedom. Freedom from her grief. Freedom from her loneliness. Freedom from the depression that she lays beneath, a barrier separately her from the rest of humanity. She can't speak to them. She can see them. They can hear her words, but they never understand. She's surrounded by people, but Amethyst has never felt more alone.

…

Amethyst's district partner, a young, strapping man by the name of Cartier, flops down in a chair across from her. "So, Amethyst, right?"

Amethyst nods. She sees no point in saying anything; her words always fall on deaf ears, no matter how trivial.

"Why'd you volunteer?" asks Cartier. Amethyst looks down at her lap, refusing to answer the question. It's not like he'd ever understand. He'd call her crazy. Maybe suicidal? That's what the girl at the Community Home called her she admitted to her plans.

After a moment of silence, Cartier reaches out and pokes Amethyst on the arm. "Hello? Anyone home? Woo-hoo, Amethyst? Earth to Amethyst?"

Amethyst, despite Cartier's downright obnoxious poking and prodding, doesn't reply. She continues to sit there, not really listening to Cartier's words, until she can't take it anymore and she snaps. Her arm jumps out and grabs Cartier's wrist, pulling it away from her shoulder forcefully. "To get away," Amethyst says through gritted teeth. She hops to her feet and all but runs out of the train car.

She can't take this anymore. So many people pry at her edges, trying to make her spill her guts, but Amethyst is—_was_—happy in her nicely built bubble. At least, when that bubble still included Ring. But after Ring volunteered, that bubble tore down the middle. She remembers the hurried Final Eight interview they did with her and a few of Ring's friends. She remembers talking about how much she loved her brother, and how desperately she wanted him home despite what he had done.

She still means what she said. Amethyst isn't stupid. She knows that in order to win the Hunger Games, you're going to have to fight, and kill. She's not worried about that, though—she's not going to win. And she is possibly the first tribute in Hunger Games history to be able to say, with one-hundred-percent surety, that she doesn't care. This is her way out. She _wants_ to die. And the security of knowing just how near that is makes her excited. These are her last days on Earth. Soon, she will join Ring beyond the curtain, and can spend eternity with her beloved brother. The Hunger Games will never be able to split them up again, because that's what finally brought that back together.

Amethyst throws herself onto her bed, rolling over and staring at the ceiling. She wonders if Cartier will win. He was Reaped, sure, but so were Deasia, Aces and Aline. Being Reaped means nothing. It just means you didn't choose your fate, but now you have to own up to it.

But it's not like that bothers Amethyst. She doesn't need to worry about living, because she's not. Soon, she will get her escape. And it will be glorious.

After a moment, Amethyst gets to her feet and enters the bathroom. She can't remember the last time she had a real, true shower. They hardly have enough water to go around in the Community Home, let alone to take showers with. Sighing, she turns on the water, undresses, and steps under the spray.

She can remember as a small child, back when her parents were still alive, she and Ring loved to take baths together. They were only five when their parents died in the first whisperings of rebellion, landing them a spot in the Community Home for the next ten years.

Suddenly a knock at the door breaks Amethyst out of her reminiscing. "Amethyst?" Cartier asks through the door. "We're going to watch the Reaping recap, if you'd like to come. If you don't, no one—no one is going to complain."

"I'm in the shower," Amethyst says sharply. "but maybe I'll join you later."

"Okay," Cartier says slowly. "Sure."

Amethyst waits for his footsteps to fade before she turns off the water and steps out of the shower. She peeks out of the bathroom, making sure the coast is clear, before dashing to the dresser for some clothes.

With a sigh of defeat, she steps out of her room and heads down the hall.

…

For the Tribute Parade, a newly instated part of the pre-games, Amethyst and Cartier are dressed in silver body suits. Their hair and faces are just as silver as their clothes, and even though Cartier is smiling broadly and waving enthusiastically to the crowd, Amethyst can't be bothered. It's pointless, for her. Waving and pretending to be happy won't change anything.

Once the chariots get to the tribute center and everyone is whisked away into elevators, Amethyst breaths a sigh of relief and glances at Cartier beside her. To her left, the young pair from 9 are chattering away about something, dressed as tall stalks of grain. When the girl catches Amethyst staring at them, she quickly looks turns away and pulls her friend across the elevator, as far from Amethyst as humanly possible.

Amethyst doesn't even bother with a sigh.

They reach the District 1 floor, and Amethyst hurries past the other tributes in the elevator. Without waiting for Cartier to follow, she hurries down the hallway and yanks open the door labelled _Amythest Court_. Scoffing at the misspelling, she slams the door and locks it shut. She wishes there was a _Do Not Disturb _sign she could put up too.

She throws the ridiculous costume into the corner of the room and goes to take a shower.

As she stands under the hot spray of water, Amethyst just wishes everything could end already. She just wants to see Ring again. And even though she knows that it _will_ be over soon, she can't help but wish she didn't have to suffer through a whole day of training before she finally gets to be free.

Amethyst steps out of the shower and gets dressed again. It's so close. The end. The freedom she longs for. It's so close, and Amethyst will be damned if she doesn't get it.

…

This year's arena is the ruins of a crumbled city, filled with rubble and debris and the scent of death. Amethyst takes no notice of this, of course—it doesn't matter where she dies, as long as it happens.

The platforms rise into the arena two days later. Most tributes are terrified, or in the case of District 2's Sasha and Graeson, determined.

But not Amethyst. No, Amethyst Court is excited. Elated. This is it. This where she gets what she wants, what she has dreamed of for so many months. Ever since the moment Ring's cannon rang and Aline Lysander declared the Victor of the 4th Annual Hunger Games.

This is where Amethyst's story ends. This is where she gets the freedom she wants. This is where she sees Ring again.

The gong rings, and Amethyst ambles off her platform, wandering closer to the Cornucopia, doing nothing to protect herself. Why should she? It's not going to matter in the long run, and as soon as she can die, she's ready for it. A smile spreads across the girl's face as Sasha comes charging at her, hauling a sword in her hand, and she stops, spreading out of her arms.

Sasha raises her sword and Amethyst does nothing to stop her.

Yes. This is Amethyst Court wants. This is how her story ends. Yes.

…

…

…

…

But it doesn't end. Of course her story can't end here. How can she be declared the Victor if she dies in the bloodbath? That's right—if she dies in the Bloodbath, that means someone else has the win.

Cartier, Amethyst's dashing district partner, comes out of nowhere, throwing himself onto Amethyst's back and sending her tumbling toward the ground. Sasha still swings her sword, cutting through the air, and she topples over, landing headfirst and knocking herself out.

"Go, run!" Cartier exclaims to Amethyst, pointing toward an alleyway that the girl from 9 already disappeared down. "I'll finish off Sasha!"

Amethyst gapes at him. "You don't get it, do you?"

Cartier doesn't appear to be listening as he stabs Sasha in the back of the head, quickly getting to his feet and grabbing Amethyst's wrist. "Come on, let's get out of here."

As Cartier drags Amethyst along, she attempts to wrestle out of his grip. She has to go back to the bloodbath. She has to get killed. She can't let Cartier get in the way of that. "Cartier! Let me go!" Amethyst exclaims, but Cartier doesn't budge. She can't understand it. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he understand that Amethyst is here to die? She could care less who wins and who loses, as long as she falls in the latter category.

Finally Cartier ducks into a ruined building that looks like it used to be a bar. He shuts and locks the door, letting go of Amethyst's wrist. "What the hell, Cartier? Are you really that thick that you couldn't figure out what I was doing?"

Cartier gives her a lopsided smile, and only then does she notice the gash in his side. He limps over to her with effort and says, "I'm sorry. About saving you. I realize that it's not what you want but I can't help but feel that it's wrong…"

"That's the only thing that's wrong with this situation, huh?" Amethyst says dryly. Cartier opens his mouth to say something else, but Amethyst cuts him off. "Look, Cartier. We're in a death match with twenty-two other kids, most of which are probably dead by now, and you're bleeding out on the floor of an abandoned bar while I stand by, doing nothing, because the general apathy I have for existence. Is me wanting to die really the worst part of our situation?"

Cartier looks away, his eyes pained and conflicted. "No, maybe not. But…if you don't mind my asking…why do you want to die so badly?"

Amethyst sighs, wringing her hands and staring off into space. "Well…it's a long story…" She sighs again. "I don't really know where to start."

"How about the beginning?"

Amethyst laughs, a real, genuine laugh. It feels good. It feels good to laugh. "So…you remember last year's Games, right?"

"Of course I do."

"My twin brother, Ring, volunteered for the Games. He told me it would make our situation better. I don't think it ever occurred to him that he might die, and leave me all alone in 1." At Cartier's odd look, Amethyst adds, "Ring was my only family left. My parents died when we were very young, meaning we practically grew up in the Community Home. Ring was the only reason I got up every morning. I knew I couldn't leave him."

Amethyst fiddles with the sleeve of her jacket, sitting down on the rickety bar counter. "And then he left me."

Cartier bites his lip, finally succumbing to the shaking in his legs and collapsing on the ground. Still, he reaches up and pats Amethyst's knee. "Amethyst…you said he was trying to make things better for you, didn't you? He thought what he was doing was right."

"That doesn't mean his death hurts any less," Amethyst says defensively. "But now, I'm sure why I volunteered." She looks at her lap, shaking Cartier's hand off of her. "And you ruined it."

"Amethyst…" Cartier begins, trying to grab her hand.

"Don't start," Amethyst snaps. "It's not going to change anything."

"But what if—"

"But what if you hadn't stopped Sasha from killing me? We wouldn't be here. I would already be with Ring—"

"And I would be dying alone," Cartier interrupts, glaring at her and looking rather irate. "Amethyst, I don't want to die alone. I don't care if saving you was selfish. I already knew I was going to die, and I didn't want to bleed out on the road, completely alone with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company."

Amethyst opens her mouth to protest, to tell him he's not going to die, that he can still win, but he keeps talking. "Amethyst, I know there's nothing that can be done for me. We don't have any supplies. No bandages, no medicine, no nothing. I'm as good as dead, and you're going to die too and…well, god, Amethyst, I don't want to die. I just can't understand how anyone can be like you. So done with everything that you're ready to die, ready to stop living, forever. I just don't get it."

"We could get sponsors—"

"Right, and who'd want to sponsor us? The suicidal volunteer and the dying reaped kid? Yeah, real power duo right there." Cartier's words end on a bitter note. Amethyst feels anger power through her veins. Why should she stay here? The bloodbath is still going on, judging by the lack of cannons, and she could just return, throw herself back into the fray, and leave Cartier here to die. Why should she care about him, anyways? They met three days ago. They have no obligations to each other.

And so she angrily gets to her feet, stomping across the bar and unlocking the door. "Since you clearly don't think either of us have anything going for us, maybe I'll just leave. Have fun dying alone."

"Wait! Amethyst! Please, wait!" Cartier shouts, his voice cracking. He staggers to his feet, stumbling after Amethyst as the Bloodbath cannons begin to sound. Amethyst doesn't bother to count, only feel more angry at everything. She missed her chance to die. "Please, Amethyst, wait! Don't leave me here!"

Cartier's pleading falls on deaf ears. Amethyst starts to leave the bar when she feels Cartier's cold hand land on her shoulder. She whirls around and glares at him as he stands, shuddering and pale and dying, begging her not to leave him to die alone. "Amethyst—please, don't you have a heart?"

Amethyst's glare just deepens, and she shakes his clammy hand off her.

"Haven't you ever thought of anyone but yourself?" Cartier demands, a hint of anger in his broken voice. "Can't we both—both get what we want?"

For a moment, Amethyst ponders it. She doesn't have a chance to reply before Cartier collapses on the spot, unable to keep himself standing any longer. For a split second, she considers leaving him there to die and running off to in search of Graeson.

But she doesn't. She slings Cartier's arm over her shoulder, kicking the door shut behind her and locking it once more before she drags a half-conscious Cartier back to the bar counter. She gently lays him across it, and says, "Hey, uh, Capitolites? A little help here?"

Cartier can still win this. Amethyst feels the anger suddenly drain from her veins as she waits hopefully for a sponsor gift. When none come, her face falls, until she realizes that sponsor gifts could never have gotten inside a building.

Amethyst peeks outside of the bar and lo-and-behold, a sponsor gift, ringing with the sounds of sonar, waits for her. She snatches it up and returns to the bar, checking the lock on the door.

She carefully unrolls some bandages, and gets to work.

…

When Cartier wakes up, Amethyst greets him by saying, "District 1 Power Duo is keeping you alive. We must have a fanbase."

Cartier laughs a little. "You didn't leave."

"Well, I couldn't leave you lying there. You'd be dead, all alone."

"Thank you," Cartier says sincerely.

Amethyst remains silent, sitting on one of the barstools. The silence that fills the bar is a comfortable one. She finds her mind wandering, wondering if Cartier might win now. She hopes he wins, over someone like Graeson. Maybe he'll remember her and Ring if he wins. Because she knows that as soon as she dies and the Games conclude, she and Ring will fade into obscurity, only remembered by Ring's few friends back in 1. But if Cartier wins…he couldn't let the girl who saved his life be forgotten, now could he?

"Amethyst," Cartier says, waking Amethyst from her reverie. "answer me something. Would Ring want you to be here?"

"What do you mean?" Amethyst asks, skirting around Cartier's question. She is afraid of the answer.

"I mean, would Ring want you to waste your life, all because of his mistakes? Because I don't think he would. If he really loved you, wouldn't he want you to live life to the fullest, even without him around to join you?" Cartier explains. "Bottom line: would Ring want you to die because he made a bad decision?"

Amethyst gives it some thought. After a moment, she admits, "…no. No, I don't think he would. Ring would probably want me to live a nice life, even if it means doing it without him…"

"See?" Cartier asks hopefully. "Ring wouldn't want you to be here, trying to get yourself killed. I doubt he would approve of his sister going suicide because of him." He reaches out and pats Amethyst's knee. "Just something to think about."

And Amethyst obliges. She's right, she decides. This is not what Ring would want. Cartier's words from the day before come back to her. _Haven't you ever thought of anyone but yourself? _

That's when it hits her: she's being selfish. She can't pretend that she isn't. She almost deserted Cartier as he was dying painfully because he injured her pride. She volunteered simply because she no longer liked existence. She's been so selfish this whole time, and been too egotistical to see it.

Of course Ring wouldn't want her to die. Ring loved her. Ring gave up his life, trying to give Amethyst a chance at a better one, and now she has thrown all of that away with two fateful words. She balls her hands into fists, angry at herself for being so selfish, so oblivious.

Suddenly, she gets overwhelmed with emotion. She wants to go home. She doesn't care that she doesn't truly have a home. She wishes she had never volunteered for the Games, that she was back home in 1, watching someone else have an emotional breakdown beside Cartier after painstakingly stitching his skin shut.

It's been so long since Amethyst cried. The tears slowly drip out of her eyes, rolling down her cheeks and wetting the collar of her shirt. It feels good. Just as it felt good to laugh, it feels good to cry. To really, truly _feel_ something. She hasn't really felt in so many months that she almost forgot how it feels.

Cartier doesn't say anything. He just squeezes her knee, letting her cry it out. The silence is, once again, comfortable, with no one feeling obligated to speak. Amethyst just sits there, crying her shriveled heart out. She didn't even cry after Ring died. She just felt numb, for so long, nothing but anger and grief and apathy filling her veins.

Now the anger has drained out of her body, leaving her feeling broken, more broken than she has ever felt before.

A realization suddenly dawns on her, and it only leaves her feeling more homesick than before:

Amethyst Court does not want to die.

…

"Do you think you can walk?" Amethyst asks Cartier a day later. Three cannons sounded not long before, the first ones to die since the Bloodbath. Amethyst wishes she had paid attention to how many died in the bloodbath. She had been too busy trying to keep Cartier alive during the recap, and of course in the middle of an argument when the initial cannons went off. "We need to keep moving, or else we'll become boring to watch."

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Those stiches and medicine really did wonders for it," Cartier replies, but Amethyst can tell he's lying, at least a little bit. "Really, Amethyst. I'll be fine."

"Whatever you say," Amethyst says off-handedly, helping Cartier to his feet. Cartier moves slowly, but he does indeed walk. "Where should we go? I mean, which direction?"

"Probably away from the Cornucopia, yeah?" Cartier suggests, sounding beyond exhausted. "We should try to avoid Graeson, and that's probably where he'd stake his claim…"

"Unless he's out on the hunt," Amethyst counters thoughtfully. "Really, it's six to one, half a dozen to the other. I say we should head to the Cornucopia."

Cartier sighs. "Fine, let's go the Cornucopia. But if Graeson is there waiting for us, it'll be your fault."

"I'll let you tell me I told you so in the afterlife."

"Deal."

It's slow going, since Cartier is walking at the pace of a crippled old man, but progress is progress, no matter how small. Eventually darkness falls, and they duck into another crumbling building for the night. Amethyst suspects it may have been a school, judging by the long hallways and many rooms, all of which are the same size.

They don't do much exploring, though. Both of them are tired, Cartier moreso, and Amethyst doesn't feel like wandering through an abandoned building that could be filled with tributes who could kill her on the spot alone.

Amethyst takes first watch, knowing that despite Cartier's protests he is completely exhausted, and lets him go to sleep. She takes a seat on what was probably the secretary's desk, alternating looking out the doors and down the hall. The night is exceptionally dark, so dark she can hardly see five feet in front of her. She wishes she had night-vision goggles, maybe, or perhaps a flashlight. No, scratch that—a flashlight would only draw attention to her and Cartier.

At what she judges to be around midnight she wakes Cartier and lays down on the debri-ridden ground. She sighs, staring at the darkened ceiling as she tries to fall asleep. She can't shake the feeling of being watched—not just by the cameras, but by someone hostile. It certainly makes falling asleep rather difficult.

Amethyst sighs, looking at the area she believes Cartier is in. It's hard to tell in the darkness, but she's pretty sure she can hear Cartier tapping out a song of some sort on the wooden counter. A rare smile graces her face, and she's about to roll over and really try to get some sleep when she notices something outside the doors.

A shaft of light.

She springs to her feet at the time as Cartier. They bump into each in the darkness, sending them sprawling toward the floor. A loud _thud_ echoes through the area as Amethyst's head makes contact with the wall. Amethyst quickly gets to her feet, grabbing Cartier's wrist and ignoring the pounding in her head.

Cartier begins to run down the hallway as a voice yells, "Hey!" _Graeson_, Amethyst thinks with a shudder. The Career found them. They are as good as dead.

"Come on!" Cartier whisper-shouts. "in here!" Amethyst can't really make it out, but she's pretty sure he's pointing to one of the classrooms. He wastes no time pulling her in and locking the door, barricading them in with desks. Once Cartier finishes, he says, "Do you think he can get through that?"

"Maybe," Amethyst says, her voice slightly shaky. Adrenaline is still pumping through her veins at the speed of light. "We're so dead."

"Not necessarily," Cartier replies, ever the optimist. "There are windows—"

"That are too small to fit through," Amethyst finishes, ever the pessimist. "We've trapped ourselves until Graeson leaves, and we have no way of knowing if he's even outside right now—"

A sudden pounding and series of angry shouts from the other side of the door say otherwise. Amethyst frowns, shutting her eyes as Graeson pounds and pounds on the door, yelling swear words and cussing them out. After a while, the sounds slowly peter out until silence once more fills the arena.

"Do you think he's gone?" Cartier whispers, carefully beginning to slide the first desk away from the door.

"Cartier, no," Amethyst says, reaching out to grab him and pull him away from the door. "He's probably trying to—"

Suddenly the door bursts open, revealing Graeson from 2 with a sword in each hand. Cartier staggers backwards out of surprise, crying out in pain as the stitches in his side shift and rip. He trips over a book on the floor, landing him on his butt right below Graeson's wrath.

Amethyst doesn't think; she just acts. She grabs a chair and throws it forcefully at Graeson's back as the boy from 2 prepares to gut her ally. Graeson crumples, crying out in pain as he loses his grip on his swords, sending them flying through the air. Amethyst uses another chair to block one of them but the other…

The other…

The other becomes embedded in Cartier's stomach. Cartier begins to scream in agony, shuddering violently and shouting Amethyst's name.

Amethyst, once more filled with rage, snatches up Graeson's lost sword and swings it at the boy from 2's head, slicing his neck halfway off his body. She screams as blood begins to spray everywhere, and desperately drags Cartier away from him as Graeson's cannon sounds.

"Cartier, it's okay, it's okay," Amethyst mumbles, trying to grab onto the sword handle but finding her hands too slick with sweat and blood. "You're going to be fine, you're going to be alright—"

"Amethyst," Cartier chokes out. "I don't know what Ring would say in this situation but I know what I'm going to say—don't waste it, don't waste your life, use it, please, win, go home. That's what Ring would have wanted and that's what I want—that's my dying wish, Amethyst!"

"You're not going to die!" Amethyst exclaims, terrified at the hysterical edge in her voice. "You're going to be fine! You can't die, not now, not after everything that's happened…"

"Amethyst, look at me," Cartier wheezes. "I'm dying. There's nothing you can do for me. Just…please, don't waste your life. Do something good. Make this sacrifice worthwhile, please—"

With tears coursing down her cheeks, Amethyst says with as much surety as she can, "I'll win. I'll win for you." She chokes on her sob. "And Cartier—thank you. For opening my eyes."

"Of course…" Cartier trails off, and his head goes limp against the ground as his eyes take on a glassy sheen. A cannon fires. Amethyst screams, sobs, cries for her fallen ally. She doesn't care how loud she's being. Right, at this very moment, she couldn't care less if another tribute came by and killed her.

But she promised him. She promised Cartier that she would win, and she's going to make good on that promise. She'll be damned if she doesn't.

She gets to her feet and starts to run. She doesn't know where she's going. All she knows is that she has to get out of here. Away from the blood. Away from the bodies. Away from the Games. Away from all the blood and death and sadness and tears and all of her problems. She wishes she could keep running forever, maybe until she collapses and can't move anymore.

With her vision blurred by her tears and images racing through her head, she staggers around the arena, eventually finding herself back at the Cornucopia. Back where it all started. It could have ended then, four days ago. She could have saved herself a lot of pain and suffering, but oddly enough, she doesn't regret it. She doesn't regret staying with Cartier. She doesn't regret listening to what he had to say. The only thing she regrets is volunteering.

Amethyst stumbles into the very back of the Cornucopia, passing axes and swords and backpacks, and passes out, the stress of the day catching up with her. Tears still course down her cheeks even as she sleeps.

…

When Amethyst wakes up, the arena is silent. She wonders to herself how many more tributes are left in the arena.

To think, twenty-four hours ago, she was still in the bar with Cartier, debating which direction they should go. If only she hadn't suggested they return to the Cornucopia. If only she had made Cartier turn down a different hallway instead of trapping themselves in that room. If only she had stopped Cartier from removing the barricade.

If only she had been better.

Maybe Cartier would still be alive. Maybe she wouldn't be here. Hell, maybe Ring would still be alive, and they could be at home in 1, together in the Community Home, watching that fifteen-year-old from the Reapings break down and sob over Cartier's death.

And so Amethyst lays there, hidden amongst all the supplies that would never be used, hardly moving the whole day. She just can't make herself move.

If she thought she had been broken before, she was wrong. Maybe it would have been easier if she hadn't seen Cartier die in person. Maybe if it wasn't so painful and bloody. Maybe if he was gone in an instant like Ring was, burnt to a crisp in a fiery blaze. Maybe it would be easier to cope.

Late in the evening, two cannon shots sound. Amethyst hardly even registers it. She just continues to stare off into space, dead to the world, completely shut down and silent, no longer even crying.

Three days ago, she cried for the first time in months. It had felt good to cry, back then. But now, Amethyst is so, so done with crying. She's done with blood. She's done with death. She's done with the Hunger Games. She just wants everything to go back to the way it was, when Ring was still alive and Cartier was happy back in 1, and none of them were dead or mentally traumatized and taking refuge inside of a giant golden horn.

Eventually she falls into a fitful sleep, not truly sleeping at all.

Amethyst wakes to the sound of another cannon shot in the middle of the night. She lifts her head for a few seconds before she drops it again and falls back asleep. _One less person to wait for…_

When the morning comes, Amethyst begrudgingly gets to her feet and finds a spot to relieve herself. She slowly trudges back to the Cornucopia, hoping to find something to eat and then go back to sleep when a knife whistles through the air, embedding itself into the Cornucopia a few feet away from where Amethyst is standing.

She whirls around and comes face to face with the girl from…what District is she from again? Amethyst knows she recognizes her face…4! That's it. She's the girl from 4.

The girl throws another knife, this one landing even further away from Amethyst. Amethyst herself just continues to stand there, starting at 4. "…are you done yet?"

"Nope, I still got three more knives, and I'm winning this thing," 4 says in a fairly calm voice. She grabs another one of her knives, getting close enough that Amethyst actually has to lean to the side.

Amethyst, on the other hand, ducks inside the Cornucopia, grabbing one of the swords she'd seen two days previously. She re-emerges, prepared to challenge 4 when the girl throws her second-to-last knife, which cuts through Amethyst's left calf.

She hisses in pain, pushing through it and approaching the girl from 4 with her sword poised for attack. Just as she moves to strike, 4 snatches up a battle axe which she holds as a shield, blocking Amethyst's attack.

They fight for several minutes in the complete silence of the early morning, both of them narrowly missing death many times over.

Finally Amethyst gets a strike in 4's neck, and the pretty girl from fishing district topples over, choking on her own blood as Amethyst drops her sword to the ground.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, I PRESENT TO YOU, THE VICTOR OF THE 5TH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES, AMETHYST COURT OF DISTRICT 1!"

Amethyst falls to her knees, staring up at the sky as a hovercraft materializes to collect her. Breathing heavily, she thinks dazedly, _I did it, Cartier. I did, Ring. I won. I really won. I promise I won't waste my life. _

As they pull her up into the hovercraft, she wishes she could smile. But after everything that has happened…how can she smile and pretend everything is fine? Because she knows that everything is not fine, and likely never will be again…how can she act like nothing is wrong?

…

The first thing Amethyst does when she gets out of the arena is start to plan. She plans to take a similar approach to her Victory as Ares, just without all the fanfare and pride in the kills she made. When she returns to District 1, she is going to open an Academy. She is going to teach children how to cope with the Games, so in case they are ever Reaped, they can survive it, and one more family in 1 will be spared of heartbreak.

She excitedly tells this plan to her escort and Peacekeeper-mentor, Porphyra and Captain Saballos, the former tells her it's a wonderful idea, but Saballos has a different standing on it.

"Amethyst," he says. "are you sure this is a good idea? Could it not become like the Careers from 2?"

"That's a risk I'm willing to take, if I can spare more people of the heartbreak that the Hunger Games causes," Amethyst answers firmly.

Saballos simply shrugs and shakes his head, happy to be relieved of his duties so he can return home to his family.

…

At the party celebrating Amethyst's Victory, Deasia approaches her and wordlessly hands her a tape.

The next day, on the train ride back to 1 to begin her life as a Victor, she listens to Deasia's tape, wondering what the first Victor wanted her to hear.

"_If you're listening to this, it means you've won, too. In case you're hearing this years, decades, even centuries down the road, I'm Deasia Marquis, of District 11, Victor of the 1__st__ Annual Hunger Games. _

"_Being a Victor is difficult, and everyone copes in different ways. Some people cope with alcohol or drugs. Others cope by cutting themselves off from society. Some simply can't handle what they saw in the arena, and just shut down. _

"_I'm here to tell you how to avoid doing all of those things. Sure, I'm not the best at coping. But in the past five years, I think I've figured it out. You have to learn how to move past it. Yes, it was traumatic and horrifying, and these events will never leave you as long as you live. You never dwell on your past, but that does not mean you should—or can—forget it._

"_But you can't forget how to live. Let your past be part of you, but not become you. It may seem hard to survive now, but trust me, it will get better. Soon, the good days will outweigh the bad, and while you may not be the same person you were before your name came out of that bowl or you put your hand in the air and volunteered, you can learn to live again. _

"_The Hunger Games don't have to rule your life."_

**A/N: Angst train is pulling into the station. **

**Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I've had it partially written for a while now and only just got the inspiration to finish it up. That's pretty much how this entire story is going to go. I'll write chapters when I get inspiration. But it's another monster, like Aces's, and I love it!**

**Anyways, did you like this very-angsty chapter? Did you like Amethyst? Why do almost all the Victors have names that start with an**_** A**_**? All of this and more, next time with Aza de Verde. (don't worry, she's the last **_**A**_** name for a while. After her comes Sniper Forth, so we're good). **

**Random Question of the Chapter: Of the five Victors we've seen so far, which is your favorite?**

**My answer: I got to say…I love Aces. It's obvious, by how much longer his chapter is than any of the others.**

**(In case anyone is wondering where the current standings thing went, I'm planning to put it in every five Games, so it's back now!)**

**Current Standings:**

**District 1: Amethyst Court (5****th**** Games)**

**District 2: Ares Stander (3****rd**** Games)**

**District 3: N/A**

**District 4: N/A**

**District 5: Aces Chaney (2****nd**** Games)**

**District 6: N/A**

**District 7: N/A**

**District 8: Aline Lysander (4****th**** Games)**

**District 9: N/A**

**District 10: N/A**

**District 11: Deasia Marquis (1****st**** Games)**

**District 12: N/A**

**-Amanda**


	6. Aza de Verde

**Name: Aza de Verde**

**Age: 17**

**District: 3**

**Gender: female**

**Kills: 3**

**(little warning to anyone interested, there is a **_**ton**_** of swearing in this chapter.)**

…

Alright, well, I'm Aza. Victor of the 6th Annual Hunger Games, resident of District 3, all that shit. I guess since I paid at least eleven Caps for this thing, I should actually use it, so here I am, sitting in my new house in the Victors' Village, monologuing into a tape recorder and likely seeming insane to any passerby. So you listeners—probably Capitolites, but whatever—better enjoy the hell out of this recording.

First things first, fuck the Capitol. No, I'm not a rebel, I'm sure that's the first thought that came to your head. No, it's just that I didn't care about the Capitol until they told me to go die in their televised death match, and that is what lead me to say, 'fuck the Capitol'.

Oh, and I'm sure I can predict what you're going to say next, _"But Aza, even if you hadn't be Reaped, another girl would have, and she probably would have died!"_

Do you think I care? As long as I don't know the girl who got reaped instead of me, well, sucks to be her. Better her than me.

"_But Aza, what if she had a life!" _

Yeah, well, guess what? I've got a life too. A life I'd like to live, thanks.

…

I have been told, ad nauseum, that I am a spoilt brat. Well, if I'm a spoilt brat, I'm pretty fucking self-aware. Especially when everyone at home hates you so much that there was _literal-fucking-cheering_ at the Reaping when my name came out of the bowl. Well, it certainly couldn't have done me any favors when I yelled, "Fuck all you bitches!" when they started to cheer, but what was I supposed to do? Sit back and let them laugh at me, degrade me right after I had been condemned to death (and we all know how that turned out).

Really, the main reason I can't be considered a spoilt brat—brat, sure, but spoilt? It's kind of hard to be spoiled when you have no family to begin with. As far as I know, my mother works as an Avox in the Capitol, my father is dead, and any siblings I may have had are also probably dead. But I've never minded being alone, and I certainly didn't at the time I was Reaped, either.

See, I'm a bit of a loner. I'm just not a people-person. I like cats though. Some people say that's my only redeeming quality. That's completely not true. I'm…I like…I can…yeah, okay, maybe cats are the only good part of me, but I'd say that's one hell of a redeeming quality!

I could go on for hours about how much I love cats…what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, the Hunger Games.

So my district partner was this eighteen-year-old guy named Pix. Don't bother remembering Pix, since he died two and a half minutes into the Games. We never even held a real conversation, aside from the professional, obligatory district partner-stuff.

It was probably because he had jumped on the Aza Hate Train, just like most people in 3. Even after I came home as their first Victor, they still don't appreciate me! But, like I said, I don't need other people to be happy. I'm content to spend the rest of my life alone in my big house with around seven cats to keep me company.

Pix and I were chilling on the train, a good distance apart, and our Peacekeeper mentor, Captain Fisher, wanders in and starts telling us strategies. I don't really get why, since so far I don't think a single of our tributes had ever made it to the Final Eight, but Fisher, you do you, honey. Who am I to judge your ability to keep small children alive during a televised death match?

Another thing I should mention: I'm not good at following conversations. I just don't focus well. What can I say, I have the attention span of a dead squirrel.

Anyways, Fisher talked a lot and for a long time so I didn't really pay attention, but eventually the recap came on and we all went to watch it.

There were no volunteers in 1, just a twelve-year-old girl and a fifteen-year-old boy reaped, but 2 of course had the obligatory volunteers. At the time that I'm recording this, of course all these people I'm mentioning have been dead for around two months now. So there were two powerful volunteers from 2 named Zane and Zahira. Apparently it was the year for names with _Z_ in them, ha.

Zahira is going to be one out of those four mentioned that you're going to want to remember. Okay, moving on. Most of the other tributes were fairly uneventful. There was another little girl from 8, a strong boy from 10, and a blind girl from 12. Pretty standard Hunger Games stuff, if I do say so myself.

Pix was terrified—but Pix was Pix, so I was doing my best to reserve judgement—and I was kind of unfazed, if I remember correctly. Please trust me when I say I'm not sugar-coating the truth—I just don't care about things like that. It's not like I want to die, even though I act like it sometimes. I'm not…I don't know, Amethyst Court before her reality check came in and slapped her across the face.

So, we got the Capitol, and went through the tribute parade—I'm not going to comment on the tribute outfits. They were a huge disaster, and I'd prefer to leave that particular memory buried—and got two whole days of training, wow, thanks Cappies. Would you like an award? You gave your hostages with ticking clocks hanging above their heads a whole other day to live! Congratu-fucking-lations.

Pix had asked me to ally with him, and I'm not sure if you know this, but I don't like people. I only like cats. And Pix, clearly, was not a cat. I turned him down, and still don't regret it. I've seen what happened to the other Victors who got attached to their allies—cough, cough, Aces and Amethyst and Deasia and Aline, cough, cough—so I suppose I was taking a bit more Ares-like approach to finding Victory, just without ripping anybody's arm off, preferably.

Luckily, no one else approached me to propose an alliance, probably because they watched the Reapings and didn't want me to cuss them out regularly. Hey, it's a win-win. I don't have to have extra social interactions, and they don't have to hate existence every moment they are around me! Yay!

I spent most of training trying to figure out to use weapons, because, oddly enough, they don't teach people to fight in District 3. I can't imagine why. It seems like such an obvious skill that people who spend ninety-percent of their lives staring at computer screens would need to have!

The Cappies didn't like me at the interview. Maybe if they had all been cats, we would have gotten along better, even though there were a few who definitely felt the same way when I talked about this one alley cat I knew who I named Riley—oh, by the way, don't…don't be attached Riley. She's dead.

Anyways, on that depressing note, I guess it's time for me to go find food. Au revoir!

…

If some of things I say in this section are garbled, just know it's because I'm talking with my mouth full. Yeah, that's right, I went there, bitch. Now deal with it or turn off the recording. See if I care.

Here's a piece of advice for all you aspiring Head Gamemakers out there: don't give a group of twelve-to-eighteen-year-olds guns. Just…just don't. I don't know what possessed the Head Gamemaker—he's dead too—to give us nothing but guns to kill each other with, but that's why the 6th Annual Hunger Games will probably go down in the history as the shortest Games to date.

See, it lasted a magical four and a half hours. Trust me. I was counting.

So, we all rise into the arena, right? And I look toward the Cornucopia, expecting to see a bunch of different kinds of weapons—like the stuff I apparently wasted precious hours of my life learning how to use—but instead am greeted with the sight of hundreds of handguns.

Once the gong rung, it was chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Bullets were firing everywhere, and gunshots were filling the air, and I went partially deaf in my left ear from all of it. The only hope I had had of not being shot was to do a bizarre dance-like movement that involved jumping up and down, shifting side to side, and ducking in between each spectacular move.

If I remember right, a bullet grazed my left knee, but didn't actually get any inside of me.

Fifteen tributes could not say the same thing. Fifteen tributes were gone in the opening ten minutes. I can only imagine what President Evangeline was thinking as he watched it. I would have liked to see his face. I bet it was purple like a grape, or maybe red like a tomato. Either way, it would have been priceless.

By the end of the first hour, we were to the Final Eight. I was running on fumes with blood coming out of my knee as I ran into the forest to my left, deciding to avoid the field of wheat—with good reason, I heard it was inhabited by poisonous snake mutts—until eventually my leg couldn't take it anymore and I collapsed.

I had a single gun with around seven bullets in it to my name and nothing else, but even at the time, I figured it didn't really matter. I could tell these Games would be over in a matter of hours. All I needed to worry about was being shot from afar. If the Games really had dragged out long enough to need food and water, well, I figured I'd cross that bridge when I got to it.

Of course, I was already halfway across the bridge, but you know, whatever. I was a stupid child—I still am, of course—and even I make mistakes. Oh yes, I'm sure that's surprising since I'm just _so_ amazing that everybody in 3 resents me for not dying like a good little tribute. If that ain't love, then I don't know what love is.

I stayed where I was for a little while as the fifteen cannons started to sound. I knew that Zane, both from 1, blind girl from 12, the strong boy from 10 _and_ the little girl from 8 were all among those cannons. It makes me laugh just thinking of Ares's reaction to Zane dying in the Bloodbath.

But hey, he still had Zahira, and Captain Fisher still had me. And we all know how that turned out, since it clearly isn't Zahira here making this recording. You should be glad that it isn't, since she was a Grade A bitch. Not that I'm not also a Grade A bitch, but in a different, more subtle way.

Eventually I was forced to move on after hearing gunshots not too far away and another cannon go off. Things were quickly becoming easier for Past-Aza. I figured out how to cock the gun. I figured out how to shoot. That's all you need to know, right?

It was three hours in, and seventeen tributes were already dead. All of them gunned down at the Head Gamemaker's idiocy. I guess it was shoot or be shot, and at least ninety percent of the bullets didn't even hit anyone. None of us had any aim, at least not under the circumstances.

I had re-emerged from the forest as the eighteenth cannon went off. That left six tributes in the arena, eighteen of them dead, seventeen of them with bullet wounds and one poisoned to death by snake mutts in the wheat fields. I made sure to steer clear of that place, thank Panem.

Whatever. You can tell I'm not fazed by it. Simple. I just don't care about it.

I wandered for another few minutes until I saw movement in the wheat field; I didn't think when it happened. I just cocked my gun and shot.

A few moments later, a cannon fired, and Aza de Verde was officially a murderer.

It fazed me worse than I ever thought it would. It was such a quick thing, such an unconscious move to shoot, that it never even occurred to me that I could _actually_ kill someone. In my defense, I thought it was a snake mutt. Honest.

Five tributes left already? Damn, I've only been here for fifteen minutes!

Okay, so since they pretty much do the finale once they reach the final five/four, they (likely begrudgingly) pushed us all together with the snake mutts and made us meet at the Cornucopia for the final showdown. It didn't take long for a twentieth cannon to fire, courtesy of Zahira and her gun.

I narrowly missed being shot by the boy from 12, and hit the girl from 4 in the back of the knee. It wasn't a very epic fight. All we were doing was shooting at each other until someone died or we ran out of bullets, in which we'd usually just grab a different gun.

Finally Zahira got tired of it and decided to just go for me. She tackled me as 12 and 4 kept shooting at each other, and Zahira was about to shoot me in the face when I managed to push her off me. I pinned her down, finally having the upper hand, and shot her in the neck as the same time as 4's cannon fired.

I had ducked behind a crate, shooting wildly at 12, just hoping to hit him. Finally, when I had more bullet wounds than I cared to count, he started to scream in agony until a final cannon fired and I allowed myself to loose consciousness.

…

I've never really been bothered by what others think, especially when I'm a bitchy girl who used to go dumpster diving with alley cats and live in abandoned buildings, but when I came home, expecting some sort of warm welcome and just got hatred…well, that hurt. I killed people to get here, Goddammit, and no one cared. They just glared at me during my homecoming, wishing I had gone into the arena and never came out.

And that is the main reason I have decided to lock myself in my house, only leaving to go mentor, to get more cats, or to buy more food. I'm perfectly happy. Just as I used to be as the neighborhood dumpster diver. Really. I'm happy. I'm crazy, but I'm happy. Trust me. I promise.

My cats agree with me. I'm fine here with just them to keep me company. I'm just not a people person. Cats are not people, and people ask questions, but cats don't ask questions. Cats don't judge people. Cats are just little bitches, like me, which means we get along very well.

As long as I keep myself occupied, my mind will never wander to the arena! Those goddamn four and a half hours that changed my life forever. At least it wasn't enough time to get close to someone. I'd really hate to turn out like Aces or Aline…

…

Aza never got married, content to live out the rest of her life with her cats. She was eventually forced to take in a younger family member, Pixyl, but she didn't really mind. She tried to take Deasia's advice to heart and move on, and nothing she saw in her games was terribly traumatic. But it was just the stress of knowing she had killed someone that truly did her in.

Still, she lived. She loved her cats. She loved Pixyl. She didn't let the Games stop her. They only weighed her down on the bad days that kept Aza de Verde from doing what she wanted to. Sometimes it became too much and she snapped, and sometimes she was the same old Aza from before the Games, a rude, outspoken girl who always had an opinion to tell, even if no one wanted to hear it.

Sure, she was crazy, but at least she was happy.

**A/N: Ahahahaha Aza is a bitch and I had way too much fun writing this chapter. Side question: why do all the Victors I create turn out as terrible people? Deasia and Aline aside, of course. **

**Sorry if this chapter seems haphazard, hard to follow or all over the place, but that is kind of the point. Aza is just a very haphazard person, and I am here for it. **

**Bit shorter of a chapter, but since I wrote it so quickly, I guess that's to be expected. **

**Random question of the chapter: are you a night owl or a morning person?**

**My answer: bit of both, I guess. **

**See you next time for Sniper. Alright I'm going to go to bed now. You all better like this chapter because I stayed up late to write it. Alright bye now. **

**-Amanda**


	7. Sniper Forth

**Name: Sniper Forth**

**Age: 15**

**District: 2**

**Gender: Male**

**Kills: 2**

**(There is some pretty graphic torture ahead. Like it's bad. Just be warned.)**

…

_If you can't cry, laugh. _

…

_**Sniper Forth and the Chance To Get Rich(er)!**_

On the morning of the Reaping for the 7th Annual Hunger Games, Sniper woke up cheerfully. He got dressed cheerfully. He greeted his younger brothers, Hunter and Gunnar, cheerfully. He ate breakfast cheerfully. He talked to his mother cheerfully. He did everything cheerfully, as always.

Hunter and Gunnar did not share his optimism. Both of them were just twelve-years-old, hardly old enough to win the Hunger Games. "Oh, come on, guys!" Sniper exclaimed. "There's no way either of you will be Reaped. And even if you were, someone would volunteer for you. That's how this stuff works."

Gunnar shrugged, but Hunter said, "Didn't you hear? Ares only got one male volunteer this year, and no one is even sure if he has the guts to do it."

"I'm sure it's going to be fine," Sniper assured them. "Like I said, there's no way either of you will be Reaped! We'll all be fine."

Neither of his brother spoke again, leaving the room in a slightly uncomfortable silence. Sniper didn't let it get to him, however. He powered on through the tension in the air, like he always did when something uncomfortable happened. "Hey, Mom, where's Dad?"

"He's out today, dear," his mother replied, smiling at her sons from across the table. "After the Reaping, he has a meeting to attend with the mayor and the Head Peacekeeper."

"Oh," Sniper said softly. "Okay."

The smile quickly returned to his face as he grabbed his brothers. "Come on, let's go."

As they walked to the square, they were joined by Sniper's father, who was a very upstanding man. One of the richest in District 2, and of course one of the most loyal. He was good friends with the mayor, and the Head Peacekeeper, and had even taken trips to the Capitol before. Sniper was, of course, to be his heir and follow in his footsteps, and he didn't mind.

They arrived at the square, and Sniper led his brothers to get their fingers pricked. Sniper bid them goodbye and moved to the fifteen-year-olds section.

The escort, a woman by the name of Peppermint Mocha, which sounds much more like a coffee brand than a name someone would give to their child, took the stage proudly to the sound of thunderous applause. "Thank you, thank you!" she called, bathing in the euphoria of the attention. "Let's choose our tributes for the 7th Annual Hunger Games!"

Peppermint ambled over to the girls' bowl, quickly plucking a name. "Our female tribute is…Athena Brighton!"

No sooner had the sixteen-year-old girl began to move when two strong voices rang through the square, both saying the same two words, "I volunteer!"

The first, an eighteen-year-old blonde girl with practically pulsating muscles, glared at the other girl, another eighteen-year-old. "Fuck off," she growled. "This is mine."

"No way," the other girl said. "I'm the chosen volunteer. This is _mine_."

"I said, 'Fuck off'!" the blonde shouted, throwing a punch toward the chosen girl's face. They tussled with each other for a few moments until the blonde threw a particularly powerful punch toward the other's face. After the girl crumpled, holding her nose which blood was pouring from, the blonde powered toward the stage.

"I'm Oona Castro," she yelled, shoving Athena off the stage. "Of course, I'm also known by the title 'Victor of the 7th Annual Hunger Games, second Victor from District 2, making it the first District to get more than one Victor in this disgusting 'punishment' that the fucking Capitol makes us fucking fight in'."

A collective gasp echoed through the square. District 2 was known for its loyalty—even Jayda, from the 3rd Games, had changed her mind and swapped her loyalties—and there was no way they could let Oona compete, let alone win!

Even Sniper gasped. Things rarely fazed him, but Oona took it to another level. Who did she think she was, barging in here and ruining half of 2's chances of getting a second Victor?

"Oh—um, welcome, Oona!" Peppermint said in an overly-peppy voice. "Let's find you a district partner, shall—shall we?" She nervously glanced at Oona before quickly walking to the boys' bowl and taking a name. Still standing as far away from Oona as she could while still talking into the microphone, Peppermint said shakily, "And our male tribute is…Sniper Forth."

Sniper swallowed thickly but plastered a smile to his face. This was fine. Someone would volunteer. Someone always volunteered. Yes, this was fine.

But then Hunter's words from that morning came back to him as he mounted the stage. _"Didn't you hear? Ares only got one male volunteer this year, and no one is even sure if he has the guts to do it."_

He nervously held his breath as Peppermint asked for volunteers.

The square rang with silence—aside from the cries of his mother, of course. Finally Sniper let out his breath, glancing at Oona and Peppermint. He immediately wished he hadn't, since Oona was giving him a look with nothing but malice in her eyes. Oh God—Sniper was a loyalist, through and through. Oona was a rebel of the worst kind. She was going to kill him. She…she was actually going to kill him, wasn't she? For once…maybe the rebels would win. Sniper knew he couldn't put up half a fight against someone like Oona.

He never really had been a fighter. He much preferred to stay on the sidelines and cheer on his teammates instead of _actually_ playing the game. And so the likelihood that he could best Oona in a fight…well, he didn't even need to finish that train of thought to know that he was as good as dead against her. A shiver ran down his spine at the thought.

"District 2, your…your tributes for the 7th Annual Hunger Games, Sniper Forth and Oona Castro," Peppermint said dejectedly as Sniper shook hands with Oona. It felt like she was trying to detach his hand from his wrist.

_**Sniper Forth Receives Hilariously Over-The-Top Death Threats!**_

After Sniper said his goodbyes to his family, both he and Oona were loaded onto the train to take them the Capitol. Even when Peppermint went to find Ares, the Victor of the 3rd Games refused to come out of his room. Oona just laughed, but the only thought in Sniper's head was that they should have had an advantage, but they didn't. If Ares was going to refuse to mentor them, that put them even lower than the districts that had no Victors. It left them with no one but Peppermint—a slightly ditzy, twenty-something-year-old woman from the Capitol, no less—to guide them. Sniper had always viewed the Capitol highly, but even he had to admit Peppermint was a little bit gaudy.

Sniper turned to Oona and decided to attempt to strike up conversation. "Soooo…where do you come from, Oona?"

"Oh, it's this lovely place called 'LeaveMeTheFuckAloneLoyalistShitLandia'," Oona snapped, glaring daggers at anyone who dared to make eye contact with her.

"Ooh-kay then," Sniper said. "whatever you say."

The next thing he knew, Oona had the blade of a knife against his throat, pressing him up against the wall. "Say that again, I fucking dare you." There was un-abashed rage in her eyes. "You open your mouth one more time, and I will rip out your esophagus and tie it around your throat."

Sniper gaped at her, leaning hard against the wall in an attempt to stay away from the knife. _Is she serious? You can't wrap someone's esophagus around their throat…wow, rebels really _are_ dumb, aren't they?_

"Oh my goodness!" Peppermint exclaimed belatedly. "Oona, no!"

"Oona, yes," Oona purred in reply, pressing the blade deeper into Sniper's skin. "I wonder what the blood of loyalists looks like…" She pulled the knife away from Sniper's neck, leaving a shallow cut as a reminder. "Trust me, scum—come the arena, and you'll see a lot more of your blood than you _ever_ wanted to see…" Oona trailed off menacingly before she tucked the knife into her pocket and swept from the room.

Sniper slowly relaxed, lifting his hand to touch the cut. A few drops of blood trickled out of it and onto his palm. "Um…" he mumbled, completely bewildered. What was he supposed to say in this situation?

Oona was insane. Oona was absolutely, positively insane. He looked up at Peppermint, white-faced in her chair and staring off into space.

A small vat of rage boiled over in Sniper's veins. She stood by and did nothing! Oona could have slit his throat, and all Peppermint would have done would have been to stand there and look shocked. Maybe that worked for people who were models or actors, but this was Sniper's _life_. And he didn't doubt that once they were in the arena, she wouldn't hesitate to make good on those threats—aside from the esophagus one, since that one was…pretty much impossible.

And Sniper did something he never thought he'd do in this situation: he started to laugh.

He laughed and he laughed and he laughed. He was going to _die_. It shouldn't have been funny. And it wasn't funny. He wasn't laughing because it was funny. He was laughing because he was so _fucked_. And that…well, that _was_ kind of funny.

Blood continued to slowly trickle from the cut on his neck, wetting the collar of his shirt. He wiped some of it off on his sleeve. The cut stung.

Peppermint finally appeared to have recovered from her shock. She nervously got to her feet and walked over to Sniper. "Um…let's go…let's go get you cleaned up…put some bandages on that cut."

Sniper allowed Peppermint to lead him out of the car, feeling slightly numb. Well, if he couldn't cry, he would just have to keep laughing.

_**Sniper Forth Looks Like An Idiot!**_

But at least it was funny enough for him to laugh off.

Sniper hadn't seen Oona since the incident on the train, and wasn't quite sure that he wanted to. He now sported a lovely bandage on his neck to hide Oona's cut, and he couldn't stop thinking that soon there would be more of them. If Oona got a hold of him in the arena, well…Sniper didn't really want to think about that.

So he forced himself to stay positive as he met with his stylist and got dressed. As he stood in front of the mirror, looking the outfit over, he couldn't help but laugh some more.

He was dressed as a giant block of stone. Just a large slate of gray, cold rock that he was practically inside of. It was ridiculous, and he looked like a complete and total idiot in it. He couldn't help but wonder if it was meant as punishment to Oona, and he was just unfortunate enough to be caught in it as well.

But he could either laugh or he could cry, and he'd be damned if he did the latter.

And so he grinned and gave his stylist a thumbs up before he followed them out into the stables where he finally saw Oona again.

In typical Oona manner, she was screaming swear words and throwing around odd death threats and at whoever had the audacity to look in her general direction. "Fuck all of this shit!" she shouted as Sniper approached her. "This is ridiculous—this costume is absolutely fucking shit! I see what you're doing, Evangeline! I see it! You're trying to make me look bad! I'm smarter than you!"

_That's debatable_, Sniper thought as he climbed into the chariot. As he glanced around at the other tributes, he noted that most of them were dressed in horrible outfits this year. The pair from 9 were wearing enormous stalks of wheat. The pair from 4 were completely naked and covered in seashells. But the ones that really took the cake were the pair from 5—the boy was shirtless with solar panels taped to his chest, and the girl was wearing a dress that was literally made out of solar panels.

As their chariot pulled out of the stables to roaring cheers, Sniper waved cheerfully and grinned. _If you can't cry, laugh_, he reminded himself.

The crowd suddenly began to boo them. Sniper turned to look at Oona and found her flipping off the crowds and screaming profanities at the president. "Oona," Sniper hissed. "Shut up."

Oona lifted her other hand and flipped him off too.

Sniper couldn't help it; he started to laugh again. She was just so over-the-top, so angry that it was funny. He could tell she was trying so hard to be intimidating and dangerous, and while when she had a knife to his throat, she was achieving that, when she was just complaining about everything she wasn't too menacing. It was just entertaining. As long as no weapons were involved, Sniper was content to laugh at her.

Let's just say he wasn't the best at planning ahead.

President Evangeline gave his address, welcoming the tributes to the Capitol as Oona screamed obscenities at him. Luckily, Evangeline ignored her and powered on with his speech.

The chariots wheeled into the Tribute Center and the tributes dismounted. Peacekeepers materialized from nowhere to restrain Oona as she once more began to threaten Sniper's life, leaving the latter shaken as he boarded the elevator with the pairs from 5 and 7.

Ares paid him no attention once he arrived on 2's floor. Sniper just sighed and went into his room. _Optimism, _he reminded himself. _Come on, Sniper, you're never going to go home if you abandon hope. Come on. Just a few days in the arena and you can go home. _

_But Oona, _another voice in his head said. _She'll kill you the first chance she gets. _

Sniper glared at the wall and went to take a shower.

_**Sniper Forth Somehow Got Out Alive!**_

On the morning of the Games, Ares said no goodbyes to his disgusting tributes and simply sent off to their deaths without second thoughts. Sniper simply sighed again as Oona excitedly chattered threats in his ear once more. He felt completely desensitized to her vicious words by this point.

As the plates began to rise into the arena, Sniper took a deep breath and looked at his surroundings. This year, the arena was a tropical island, with the golden Cornucopia in the center and old, crumbling temple-like structures making a loose circle around it. The rest, save for a small sandbar ringing the land, was covered by a dense jungle. Water practically clung to the air, making it hot and humid. Almost every tribute broke out into a sweat before the gong even rang.

To Sniper's left stood the girl from 1, Glamor, and to his right was the boy from 11, Darren. Oona was positioned on the opposite side of the Cornucopia from him, making him breath a sigh of relief. The farther he could get from her, the better.

The gong rang. Sniper leapt off his pedestal, running toward the Cornucopia and the plethora of supplies, but he'd never been the fastest runner. Many of the tributes beat him there, but as long as he got a backpack, and didn't die, he couldn't complain, right? He would be alive, and that's all that mattered to him at the moment. Hunter and Gunnar would never forgive him if he broke his promise.

Sniper snatched up a backpack, not bothering to check what was inside before turning around and hightailing it out of there. He easily left the fray behind, as no one really viewed him as a threat, disappearing into one of the temples surrounding the horn of plenty.

Leaving the screams behind, Sniper shut himself in one of the smaller temples, taking a few moments to look around. There were a few holes in the ceiling that let sunlight into the main room, and overgrowing moss crawled up the stone in some places. In the center of the room stood a cold stone platform. Sniper slowly wandered through the room, trying to ignore the muffled sounds of fighting that still were to be heard.

Sniper settled down on a group of rocks and dumped out the contents of his backpack. A few packets of jerky and dried fruit, a bottle (thankfully) full of water, a small hunting knife with a serrated edge, a compass, and a small bottle of iodine. Curious, Sniper picked up the compass. The arrow was spinning all over the place, twirling fast enough to make anyone sick. What even was the point of having it? It was completely useless.

He heaved a sigh and started to put everything away, pausing to take a small sip of water. _Damn, it's hot here,_ he thought as he wiped sweat from his brow.

A few moments later, the Bloodbath cannons began to fire. Sniper carefully counted each one. _One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. _

_Twelve gone already_, he thought, surprised. _Twelve deaths. Twelve people who will never go home. _But, a happier thought came to his head. _Maybe one of those cannons belonged to Oona. Would certainly make things easier for me. _

Shrugging, Sniper put his water bottle away and leaned back in his alcove. It felt good to have walls on three of his four sides. At least in this instance, he really didn't need to watch his back, since stone was covering it pretty well. A small smile came to his lips._ Would be nice if Stone was a real person. Maybe he'd be loyal and help me out. _A small laugh bubbled out of Sniper's mouth. _Hey, if you can't cry, laugh! _

Sniper wandered through his little temple for a while as he waited for the sun to go down. It was relatively peaceful, especially for being stuck in a Hunger Games arena with eleven other kids out for his blood.

A cannon fired sometime in the afternoon, making Sniper jump. _Make that ten tributes._

The sky slowly darkened outside, and the temperature dropped dramatically. It was rather surprising, seeing as the arena was a jungle, not a desert. He found himself shivering as he headed back to his alcove, curling up with his backpack on his chest in an effort to stay warm.

Suddenly the arena was filled with the sound of the anthem. Sniper leapt to his feet, quickly aligning himself beneath one of the ceiling holes.

The first face shown was the boy from 1. Sniper never even learned his name.

Next was the girl from 3. Sniper stopped breathing for a moment. Oona was still out there. He could still die by her hand.

The girl from 3's face was quickly followed by both from 4. The pair from 5 appeared shortly after. The boy from 7. The girl from 8. Both from 9. The girl from 10. The girl from 11. The boy from 12.

As soon as the final face faded from the sky, Sniper settled back down into his alcove and decided to attempt to sleep. Even though he didn't exactly feel safe in this place, what with all the ceiling holes, but it was the best he was going to get. At least he was indoors. That was better than seven of the tributes in the arena could say.

Eventually he drifted off into a restless sleep, his head lolling against the side of his alcove.

Unbeknownst to the sleeping Sniper, outside of his temple home sat Oona Castro, wearing a jacket filled with an array of knives in all shapes and sizes. It was the prize she had snagged from the Cornucopia, likely meant for Glamor from 1, but was now her trophy to use on whoever unfortunately happened to cross paths with her. She was currently juggling two of the serrated ones, making small cuts on her hands without even noticing.

There was no denying it: not only was Oona a rebel, but she was a psychopath as well.

Doctors were consulted. Psychiatrists made diagnoses. There was no prejudice. It was simply clear, hard science. This girl was insane, and she was thirty feet from a patriot's heir.

Suddenly Oona tucked her knives back into her jacket and climbed to her feet. Every Capitolite in the nation was on edge as she stalked closer to the temple's shut door. There was no lock. There was nothing stopping Oona from opening it and finding Sniper.

Sniper sure was in for a rude awakening as Oona yanked open the door and waltzed right inside.

He woke to see someone's shadow slowly moving closer to him in the darkness. Moonlight streamed in from the ceiling holes, and as soon as the figure walked underneath one such a streak, he leapt to his feet and started to run.

Oona was expecting this, however. She caught Sniper from the hood of his jacket, snatching up a rock from the ground and smashing it against Sniper's head.

Everything went black before Sniper even had time to react.

_**Sniper Forth and…well, not even he can put a positive spin on this one…**_

When Sniper woke, early morning sun streamed in the holes in the ceiling. His vision was blurred at the edges, and his head pounded. What happened? One minute it was the middle of the night, and he was sleeping soundly and the next…here he was. Slowly he turned his head to the side, feeling a wild stab of pain shoot through his head.

Sniper was draped unceremoniously across the stone slab in the middle of the room. He tried to sit up when someone put a hand on his chest and keep him stationary.

"I'm so glad you woke up…it wouldn't be very fun to torture a dead person, loyalist or not…"

_Fuck. _

Sniper's eyes widened as he turned his head to meet Oona's hungry eyes, which he now noticed were completely void of color. As black as they were empty. The girl herself held a knife in her other hand, a wicked Cheshire grin on her face as she poised the blade above Sniper's chest. If only she would have just plunged it into his chest. It would have saved him a whole lot of suffering.

But, of course, it was Oona. Mercy wasn't in her dictionary.

Sniper was practically hyperventilating as Oona opened her vest and began to choose a new knife. _Was the first one not good enough, or was it just for dramatic effect? _

This second knife was long and serrated. Oona's Cheshire grin had yet to leave her face as she began her ultimate plan.

The blade of the knife entered Sniper's skin, but it didn't go very deep. It broke the skin right above Sniper's left eyebrow as she carefully carved a small triangle into his forehead. A drop of blood trickled into Sniper's eye.

Oona lifted the blade and moved it over a few inches, where she slowly carved a second triangle.

All along his forehead she went, cutting her little triangles in his skin as blood continued to drip into his eyes. At last she appeared to get bored of doing that and decided to move onto someone else.

Sniper felt light-headed. Whether from blood loss or the fact that he was likely concussed, he wondered if he'd ever know. His forehead ached, but the line of little triangles weren't very deep. Deep enough to get blood, but not enough to really scream.

Oona cut off the sleeves of Sniper's jacket, leaving his arms bare to the cold air that still remained in the early morning.

Sniper was dimly aware of a cannon firing in the distance.

Oona appeared to be contemplating something. Apparently she made her decision and started to cut at Sniper's right arm. The blade permeated his skin, going much deeper than the triangles on his forehead. It curved along in a sort of elegant way, covering his arm in blood as he bit his tongue. He was not going to give Oona the satisfaction of hearing him scream.

At last he realized what she was doing.

She was cutting _words_ into his skin.

The thought made him gag. With his head shaking, he slowly turned to look at his mangled arm.

_Scum. Loyalist. Useless. Worthless. Sheep. Blind. Follower. Machine. Bitch. Idiot. Faceless. Forgettable. Pointless. Liar. _

Each word was carefully cut into his skin, but they were practically unreadable because each was coated with red. Oona saw him looking and paused for a moment, digging her knife deeper into his skin. Sniper twitched violently, clenching his hands into fists as the knife just kept digging deeper and deeper and deeper.

Suddenly she yanked it out and moved to the other side of the stone slab, carving more words in Sniper's right arm.

Sniper completely lost track of time. The sun was getting higher in the sky, and at least two more cannons had fired, but he wasn't really keeping track. He felt dazed. His whole body was consumed by pain. Every time he thought Oona was done, she found a different spot on his body to mutilate. She ripped his shirt and carved circles into his chest. She dug her knives into his shoulders and twisted. She made rings of triangles around his eyes. The word 'liar' was now bleeding on his forehead above the line of triangles. He almost passed out once, but then Oona splashed water on his face which woke him up. It seeped into his cuts and made the pain even worse.

And worst of all was that he couldn't hold in his screams, and it was clear Oona reveled in it.

Sniper was going to die.

But the part of him that everyone liked so much was already gone. It didn't matter if he died anymore. His endless optimism had finally run dry. Even if he went home, no one would recognize the husk of the human being who used to be called Sniper Forth. The son of the loyalist patriot, the optimistic kid who always had something assuring to say, now just a shell of what he used to be. Tortured. Traumatized. Tired. Pessimistic. Emotionless.

And, of course, _dead_.

_The Gamemakers should have intervened by now… _he thought vaguely. _I'm the good guy…right? Don't they…don't they intervene in this stuff…_

Oona took a new knife, grabbed his left hand, and dug the blade into his palm. She twisted and twisted and twisted the knife around, mangling his skin and making him scream.

She got a strange look in her eyes. And then she did the unthinkable.

With another wicked grin and mangled giggle, she grabbed Sniper's tongue and cut it out of his mouth.

Everything went black as Sniper's mutilated screams filled the arena.

_**Sniper Forth is Done with Positivity**_

Sniper woke to the sound of the anthem playing. He cracked his eyes part of the way open, a shaft of moonlight partially blinding him until he spotted the pictures of the fallen.

First came the picture of the boy from 3. Shortly after it showed the girl from 6, quickly followed by her male counterpart. And then girl from 7.

_How long was I…unconscious…? _he wondered. _Was it…a whole day…?_

Nervously Sniper glanced around for Oona, but she was nowhere to be found. All he could see was his bloodied and ripped clothes, illuminated by the moonlight, and the slab of stone he laid upon, stained permanently red. Pain practically radiated off him in waves. His limbs and torso were trembling, and he wondered how long it would take for him to die of blood loss. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. _That's…right…_

Suddenly he heard a crash coming from around the corner. Out of the small temple hallway emerged Oona, still covered in Sniper's blood. He quickly shut his eyes and pretended to still be unconscious. He felt Oona's hand brush against his chest and fought with himself to stay still.

"Gotta kill him…" Oona mumbled to herself. "Gotta get him. Kill them all. Go home. Be hero. Save everyone. Stop Capitol. Just gotta kill some loyalist idiots. Easy. Easy. Easy. Easy."

_She's gone completely insane, _Sniper thought, terrified. _And I'm still at her mercy. _

Oona continued to mumble to herself as she stalked away, her footsteps echoing through the temple. Sniper carefully opened his eyes. Oona was gone.

Instantly his muscles relaxed a little. With shaking limbs, Sniper slowly sat up. He swung his legs over the slab and tried to get to his feet. His hands clenched around the edge of the stone table tight enough that his knuckles turned white. His legs trembled and he shut his eyes against the onslaught of pain that shot through his body.

Oona's nonsensical mumbling still echoed toward him. Sniper swallowed thickly and let go of the slab with one hand. Slowly he bent down and picked up Oona's discarded knife.

Using the wall to stay upright, Sniper limped toward the source of her rambling. When he rounded the corner, he saw Oona staring at the wall, saying the same thing over and over again. "Gotta kill him. Gotta kill him. Gotta kill him. Got. To. Kill. Him."

Sniper had a feeling she was talking about him.

His arm was shaking with the effort of lifting the knife, but he staggered toward Oona as quietly as he could. Sniper took a deep breath, and plunged the knife into the back of her head.

Oona never even had time to scream before her sentence was cut short, punctuated by nothing but a cannon shot.

Immediately Sniper collapsed. Agonized, he dragged himself across the temple and toward a large pile of leaves. Finally he reached it, pulling the leaves over his body.

Less than a minute later, he dropped into unconsciousness with tears welled in his eyes.

_**Sniper Forth Doesn't Have A Positive Bone Left In His Body**_

Surprisingly, Sniper woke up. It was to the sound of double cannon shots. A few moments later, a third cannon quickly followed.

Sniper didn't even bother to open his eyes.

He was so done. So done with everything. He killed Oona. He saved himself. But there was no reason to. He should have just let Oona kill him. Or he should have stayed on the stone slab until he bled out.

"Come out, come out wherever you are…" a voice said, startling Sniper. He jumped, the leaves on top of him shifting. "There you are…hahaha…"

Sniper wildly grabbed the knife he used to kill Oona and stabbed it through the air. The next thing he knew, someone was screaming and blood was dripping onto his face. But there was no cannon. And so he just kept stabbing, and stabbing and stabbing until a cannon fired.

Trumpets blared. Sniper jumped again, curling himself into a ball. "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, MAY I PRESENT TO YOU, THE VICTOR OF THE SEVENTH ANNUAL HUNGER GAMES, SNIPER FORTH OF DISTRICT 2!" The announcement was clearly rushed.

Sniper didn't even react. He jammed his hands over his ears and tried to tell the voice to shut up. The only thing that came out of his mouth was a small, strangled sound.

Suddenly there were hands on him, dragging him to his feet. He thrashed as much as his injuries would allow, his vision blurry and filled with black spots. He kept trying to talk, only making more mangled noises as he tried to fight whoever had a hold on him.

A syringe was put to his neck, and everything went black.

_**Sniper Forth Just Wants To Go Home**_

Sniper didn't know who was looking back at him when he looked in the mirror. It was still the same dark brown hair and green eyes, but now his eyes had a dull, deadened look to them. Although Capitol technology masked his scars rather well, they were still visible if one looked hard enough. He could still read the words inscribed on his skin, still see the triangles ringing his eyes and wandering along his forehead. When he opened his mouth, all he could see was a mangled stump instead of a tongue.

Every time he went into the bathroom, he would turn away from the mirror, terrified of the person that stared back at him. That person had killed people. That person had words carved into his skin. That person was forever silent.

That person was not him.

It was not supposed to be him. He was supposed to be kind, good-natured, optimistic. Not silent, traumatized, pessimistic. He was the good guy.

At the party celebrating his Victory, Deasia wordlessly handed him a tape. He handed it back moments later with a small note.

_It won't change anything. _

Deasia didn't appear hurt; she just melted back into the crowd and disappeared. Maybe next year she would really be able to help whoever escape the arena with their life.

…

Sniper never recovered from the Games, not mentally at least. As soon as he moved into the Victors' Village of District 2, he covered every mirror in the house. He and Ares rarely ever saw each other, and their relationship was tenuous at best.

For years Sniper lived alone, barely leaving his house. He retired from mentoring the moment Rowena Hellmiss won the Games and never did it again.

The rest of the Victors from 2, aside from Mika Alvarez from the twenty-fourth Games, pretty much ignored him. His Victory was considered disgraceful, no matter how loyal his family was to the Capitol. He never married, content to haunt his house like a living ghost, haggard and scarred, both physically and mentally.

Many people of 2 completely forgot he even existed. He left his house so little, and quickly became just another face in the crowd. Rowena Hellmiss was later said to be the _true_ second Victor from 2, and Sniper never said anything to this. It was true, wasn't it?

…

Meanwhile, in the Capitol, President Broderick Evangeline decides that in the wake of the rebellion, he will fight fire with fire. Oona cut out Sniper's tongue. And now he will do the same to those who break the law. Those disgusting rebels, who can't seem to see that the Capitol has won, and that means there is no longer any point in fighting them. They lost, eight years ago, and this is his final punishment.

As the man behind it all rises from his chair to tell his advisors of his idea, he wonders what to call these people. Those who break the law, and lose their tongues.

The door of his office clicks shut behind him, and he decides on Avoxes.

**A/N: I'm swear I'm not a psychopath. Is there something wrong with me? Yes, probably, but at least I'm self-aware.**

**Anyways, what do you think of Sniper? Do you like the way Avoxing came from what happened to him? Did you read the torture scene or did you skim over it? Probably the latter but whatever. **

**I should have made Sniper less of an optimist. I had a hard time remembering that he could be so pessimistic at the beginning. (I'm not good at writing optimistic people. Probably because I tend to have a more pessimistic attitude irl.)**

**Seriously though, my apologies for that. I mean, I've read worse (usually in Marvel fics, and it usually happens to Peter Parker for some reason) but that was pretty bad. **

**Another question: this one felt very long-winded to me. Was it boring? Was it too long? **

**Random Question of the Chapter: Who is your least favorite Victor so far?**

**My answer: is anyone going to dispute this? It's Ares. **

**Next up is Destan Oblander of District 4!**

**-Amanda**

**P.S., and yes, Rowena Hellmiss is the name of a tribute I had submitted. **


End file.
